


Unknown Quantities

by roebling



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan isn't sure what he's doing in LA any longer. Post-split story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally posted February 22, 2010)

The phone rings three times. Once more, and it will go to voice mail. At the last moment, Spencer picks up.

"I'm standing on your stoop," Ryan says.

"Ryan?" Spencer sounds groggy. "It's not a stoop. It's a porch."

They haven't spoken in over a year.

"How do you know?" Ryan asks. "It could be a stoop." He squints. The hot sun is bleaching the sky.

"I think only apartment buildings have stoops, dude," Spencer says. "I'm pretty sure it's a porch."

"They're synonymous," Ryan says. "I'm sure porch and stoop are synonyms. You can check a thesaurus."

Spencer doesn't take the bait. Ryan counts the rushing noises as he breathes in and out. Maybe he's got a cold.

"I'm in Berlin, you know," Spencer says. "It's two in the morning." He doesn't sound particularly upset; he's just stating the facts.

Ryan sits down on the top step of the stoop. He rubs the pointed toe of one shoe against the toe of the other. He bought these shoes for two dollars at a thrift store; they're almost like new, but they're just a little too small and they pinch. "Where do you hide your extra key?" he asks. "I bet it's under the mat. Or wait, did Brendon get one of those stupid fake rocks?"

"Ryan," Spencer says. His tone is a little more severe. "Shane has the spare key. Go home."

"I was just going to water your plants," he says, innocently.

Spencer snorts. "Go home, Ryan," he says again, and then he hangs up.

\---

Ryan is not sure what he's doing in LA, these days. He has the house, but there are houses everywhere. He thinks of moving often, especially when they publish the Real Estate section in the New York Times. He once called to inquire about one of the profiled properties, a glorious old estate in rural Massachusetts. The pictures showed a neat Colonial house clad in clapboard, solid and square against a slate sky. He thought of winter mornings and cold noses and the rich smell of wood smoke. The realtor sent information to his lawyer, who forwarded it on, but the envelope got buried under a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter after a while and Ryan got distracted by other dreams.

There's always someone coming into town for a week, flying out from New York or stopping over on their way elsewhere. Some of these people Ryan considers friends, and others are just amalgamated names and bodies that he recalls vaguely from other parties, other cities, other states of being. Sometimes it seems like everyone he knows is in constant motion, preparing for a tour or a trip overseas or a move to Caracas. Ryan used to live like that but he hasn't gone anywhere in a while. They'll tour again, he guesses, after they release the new album, but they can't release the new album until they write it and they put off writing the new album until after Jon and Cassie's wedding. Now they're putting it off until after Cassie has the baby and sometimes Ryan thinks it might never get written. He is not tremendously concerned.

Z is around, most of the time. She's been around for a long time now. Whatever it is Ryan has with her is warm and easy and comfortable, but doesn't really mean much. Still, she sleeps in his bed and sometimes wakes up and cooks him breakfast. They explore the city together. They don't love each other, thank God. Ryan has been filled to the brim with love, and it's never ended up working out too well. He's fine with this casual relationship, fine with his dissolute and meaningless life. On warm days he sits on the grass in his back yard and reads The White Album and wishes he were living in an era with more symbolic potential.

Alex comes to stay for a while. Traffic is terrible and Ryan is late picking him up at the airport. When he finally gets there, Alex is sitting on top of his suit case with his legs crossed. He's wearing an ancient varsity jacket and drinking coffee from a chipped ceramic mug. Even in Los Angeles, he attracts undue attention.

"The traffic was unbelievable," Ryan says.

Alex looks up. "I was worried you'd found a new lover," he says, dead pan.

Ryan rolls his eyes and helps him put his luggage in the trunk.

On the ride home Alex fills him in on all the latest goings-on in New York: so and so is opening a themed invite-only supper club on Rivington Street and everyone's talking about this band that's played a couple of shows in some secret Bushwick loft and you-know-who is fucking out of control and is most likely going to O.D. before the year is out and on and on and et cetera. Every story is lurid. Alex seems pleased. Sometimes Ryan knows the people he is talking about, and sometimes he doesn't, but he asks no questions. It's integral to this farce that Alex assume they move in the same circles. Ryan hasn't been to New York in a year and a half.

Back at the house, Z is sitting on the couch wearing a pink terrycloth robe and nothing else. She jumps on Alex's back and makes him carry her twice around the living room. Alex freshens up while Z dresses. Then, they all walk down the street to the grocery store. They stand in the produce section, blocking the aisle and arguing about what to buy. Z claims she has a secret family recipe for tomato sauce that's divine, but Ryan has never heard of this recipe before and he has his suspicions. Alex starts singing in broken Italian. Z decides the tomatoes are sub-par. They buy fresh pasta and a substantial block of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano, despite Alex's vegan objections. They spend more money than seems feasible, considering they're cooking a quick dinner for three. Ryan grew up eating Easy Mac and frozen dinners -- simple things he could cook for himself in the microwave -- but he has a talent for adapting his tastes to his circumstances.

They open a bottle of Pinot Noir. Alex has a generous pour when the wine isn't his. Ryan gets out an acoustic guitar and they sing. Z tries to cook the pasta in a pot that's too small. As the water heats back up to a boil it seethes and foams up and over onto the stove. Her tomato sauce does smell wonderful. They are all hungry. They open a second bottle of wine and Alex launches into another long story about a supposed mutual acquaintance. The evening sky is navy, turquoise, tangerine lovely through the kitchen windows. Ryan sets the table. None of the plates match. They serve the pasta right from the pot. The sauce is so hot it burns their mouths but their hunger is keen and they eat. Someone remembers that a friend is having a party, but they are all three drunk and the thought of going out is exhausting. They're pleased with the present company, and they do not need anyone else.

Later they are sitting in the living room. Candlelight jumps against the wall. Z lights a stick of incense and says, "Sandalwood always makes me think of my mother."

Alex makes a crude joke, but nobody really laughs. Z's mother is beautiful and the man she is dating is not much older than Alex. Alex doesn't talk about his own parents often but they live in LA and they have money. When he is in town he goes over for dinner sometimes. His mother makes delicious matzo ball soup. Ryan went with Alex once. Ryan thinks of his mother, of the house he bought her in Florida and of the last time he saw her, and he feels nothing. It's okay. For a long time just the thought of his parents made his stomach churn. Then he lost his dad and it hurt but the world didn't end. Nothing stopped or changed, really. Just, there was this hole in his heart that ached, and over time it has gotten smaller and the hurt has gotten less. He now knows that that he would be glad for his mother's love if she gave it freely, but it's nothing he needs to survive.

Z rests her cheek against Ryan's knee. He rubs the soft spot behind her ear, like he knows she likes.

"My dad was a war hero," he says, suddenly.

"Back from the mouth of hell, eh?" Alex asks. There's dark humor gleaming in his eyes.

"No," Ryan says. "But he gave me his medals and his uniform and stuff. I used to dress up in them when I was a kid."

"You must have been a precious child," Z says. She sometimes acts like month that separates them in age places them firmly on opposite sides of a gaping generational divide. "You know, that might be a suitable Halloween costume." They've been invited to a costume ball for Halloween, and Z has declared that they must have the best costumes. The year prior, they'd dressed up as a set of salt and pepper shakers. It had been kind of genius, even though they later realized you could buy similar costumes in the discount costume stores that sprung up like mushrooms each year as the weather started to turn cool.

"I don't have them any more," he says. "I got rid of that stuff."

"Oh," she says, and her bright eyes dim a little.

"That's good," Alex says approvingly. "I read that you should never keep anything longer than ten years."

"What?" Z says. "Alexander, that's ridiculous."

"No, Elizabeth," he says, mocking. "It's the truth. Any longer and you begin to fetishize the material world. You develop an unhealthy attachment."

She laughs and says, "That's fucking moronic, asshole."

Ryan stares at the dried remnants of wine in the bottom of his glass and disagrees. Nothing gold stays, he thinks. He read that poem once, back when he was thought he cared about that sort of thing. He doesn't remember the rest of it now, but those three words remain.

\---

After Spencer hangs up on him, Ryan sits on the stoop for a few hours reading an old copy of Interview Magazine that someone left in the backseat of his car. The sun apexes and then tips into decline; it gets hotter. He undoes his jacket and folds it neatly. Sweat runs down his back. A few passersby -- neighbors, perhaps -- give him funny looks, but he must not appear suspicious enough to warrant a call to the cops.

His phone buzzes in his pockets. Michael is arranging a karaoke night and he wants to know if Ryan would like to attend. Ryan is not sure if he would, so he texts back a tentative wll let u know shortly. He folds up the magazine, marking his place with a dogeared page, and walks around the side of the house. There's a tall stockade fence surrounding the yard. Ryan rattles the gate but it's latched from the inside and there's no give. The blinds are drawn and the windows are surely locked. Ryan could go ask Shane for the key, but there's no guarantee he'd give it up -- not now, anyway. He made his allegiances perfectly clear.

So Ryan goes home. He makes himself a turkey sandwich and opens his laptop. He means to check Panic's website to see how much longer they're going to be out on tour, but something stays his fingers and he gets distracted looking at videos of sloths on YouTube. Sloths make him remember amorphous discussions about vacationing in Costa Rico and seeing the rain forest. He ends up on Travelocity checking out the price of flights, but he can't make any plans until he talks to Z. She may not be interested in going any longer.

He texts Michael back to say he's game for karaoke. He takes off his shoes and lays on the couch with one arm thrown over his eyes. The evening sunshine still burns. He used to be fine with quiet but lately he's having a harder time filling the vacant space inside his head. He turns the television on and puts on the Weather channel and listens to them give the same forecast every eight minutes. Rain is due.

Z floats in from somewhere, heralded by a cloud of sweet perfume. She places his feet on her lap and tells him about rehearsal, about all the grudges and slights she buries in her heart in the interest of harmony and her career. There are many parts of their lives that they keep separate, which makes things easier. He tells her about karaoke and she wants to go. They shower together more to save water and time than out of desire. Even though they share a bed they don't really have sex that often. Z wears a dress that buttons up the back and Ryan has to do up the last few buttons for her as she holds an armful of straw blonde hair off her neck.

They go out for sushi and split a spicy tuna roll and an avocado roll. Z drops a bit of rice down her dress and laughingly dares Ryan to reach in and pluck it out. He flushes and she laughs and goes to the washroom. He orders a second bottle of Kirin and wonders if he's being had.

They have a private room at the karaoke bar. Micheal is there and Vinnie and Anna and Alex and James and everyone else. Alex is singing Chumbawamba as they come in. Ryan hated that song when it was popular and he hates it now, but he laughs at the irony with the rest of them. James takes a folded New York Times crossword puzzle out of his pocket and peers at it. He's been working on it for a week and a half, but only a quarter of the squares are filled in. Ryan helps him get a few more answers, but neither of them know a thing about Beijing opera so it will remain unfinished.

A waitress in a very short skirt keeps bringing pitchers of cheap beer so they keep drinking them. Someone must have called out for a pizza but by the time the delivery guy arrives the culpable party has either lost their hunger or forgotten. Everyone throws in a few dollars to pay and they have enough extra to buy the delivery guy a drink. Ryan is cajoled into performing. He steels himself as Alex and Z bend over the catalog to select a song but even he's not prepared for Mariah Carey's Butterfly. He can't reach the high notes and ends up mumbling into the microphone, monotone and glassy-eyed. Z gets on stage and dances, twisting her snakey torso in constant and undulating movement.

The songs get dumber, intentionally. Vinnie sings Whip It and Anna dazzles with On the Good Ship Lollypop. Some more people have come and Ryan doesn't know them. He sits in the corner and takes off his jacket and looses his bolo tie. The beer has gotten him drunk and now it just tastes sour so he flags their short skirted server and orders two shots of vodka. He downs them one-two and ignores the rasp. The little glasses stack neatly inside one another. A man he does not know is on stage singing My Chemical Romance while wearing faux leather leggings. Ryan considers taking a picture on his phone, but feels like he would be implicating himself if he did.

Z sits in his lap and eats a plate of french fries. The smell of the ketchup is making him kind of nauseous. He takes out his phone and checks his messages but he doesn't trust himself to reply to anyone. Besides, more than half are from Alex, who is sitting across the room with his feet propped up on a stool. He is glaring owlishly at the stage, and his hair is wild. There is rowdy applause when the song ends. Z offers Ryan a french fry. He takes a bite. It is cold and saltier than he prefers, but he likes the way Z lets the tip of her index finger rest on the corner of his mouth.

Z rubs his calf with her toes and he worms a finger in between two of the buttons on her dress. The topography of her back is bewildering, but her skin is warm and firm and familiar. They could take this somewhere more private. He wants to undo all the buttons and peel the dress off her and line his thumbs up with the sharp wings of her shoulder blades. That is what he his thinking when he hears a too-familiar staccato melody: the plink-plink of piano keys twinkling, very mannered. Alex has mounted the stage. He leans perilously forward into the mic and launches into the chorus. Their eyes meet. He grins. His teeth look too sharp. He's got a good voice, but he's not Brendon, and Ryan wonders where such misplaced loyalty is coming from after all this fucking time.

He feels a sick little twist in his stomach. It's impossible to disclaim ownership. He turns his attention back to Z, but she's watching him with quiet eyes. He wants to shove her off his lap and tell her that he's not a fucking child, that it's fine. He knows it's just a joke, but for all that they're not in love she's gotten to know him a little to well because it fucking makes him want to cry or maybe punch Alex in the face. So he smiles and ignores the way the laughter burns and when the song is over, when Alex has taken his final bow, he claps along with everyone else. It's just a joke. It's not like he fucking cares. Besides, it's not exactly any great shakes being known as 'that band that wrote the theme song to the O.C., right?'. He's played this game for a long time and he knows how to slight people.

But the spark of irritation kindled a flame that burns in his belly. He orders another shot to try to dowse it but it won't go out. He holds his liquor well but he has his limits. Someone claps him on the back so hard that he nearly falls off his stool. The karaoke room is humid and overcrowded. Ryan needs some air, but when he stands he forgets that Z is still on his lap. She clings and they both tumble to the sticky floor. Someone's singing Michael Jackson. Ryan's spilled something on his linen jacket. Z climbs to her feet, precarious as a tightrope walker in her four inch heels.

It's time for them to go, it seems. She wraps his arm around her waist and together they slowly slide down the stairs. It's one of those nights where time freezes and melts. Ryan tries to light a cigarette but the lighter frustrates his efforts. A cab pulls up to the curb, and he slides in and droops against the door. Z gives the driver his orders and helps Ryan sit up but he's gone all boneless. He rests his head in her lap, and she strokes his hair.

"I was seventeen when I wrote that," he mumbles. "I was a dumb kid."

"I know," she says. "It's fine, baby."

Her touch is unobtrusive and her voice is sweet but he closes his eyes and wonders if she laughs at him, too.

\---

Ryan still follows Brendon and Spencer on Twitter, so he knows they land in LA so late it's actually early. He is considerate and waits until the following afternoon to knock on their front door. The dog barks, sharp, and the door opens. Brendon has a sour expression on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He crosses his arms and buries his hands in his armpits. He is pale and his hair is rumpled.

"I wanted to welcome you home," Ryan says. Brendon narrows his eyes. Ryan holds out the package in his arms. "I brought you a fruit basket."

Brendon inspects it through the cellophane. "Pears and chutney. Nice."

"Yeah," says Ryan. "The lady at the store said they were in peak season."

Brendon looks suspicious.

"I was going to get you a bottle of wine, but apparently fruit baskets have something for everyone. They're healthy, too."

Brendon shakes his head. "You get weirder every day," he says, but he holds the door open and lets Ryan in.

Ryan has been over Brendon's house plenty of times; he stayed in the guest bedroom for two months back when he'd first made the move out to LA. Still, it's been a long time and everything looks different. Maybe it's the new pictures hanging on the walls, or maybe the couch is new. Brendon resumes his lazy sprawl in front of the television. Bogart sniffs Ryan's ankles for a few minutes, his stubby tail wagging hard, before jumping up to settle on Brendon's belly. The blinds are still down, and it is evening dark in the living room in the middle of the afternoon.

Ryan sits gingerly on the other chair. "So, how was tour?" he asks.

"Fine," Brendon says. "Good, you know, just exhausting."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He remembers how it goes.

Brendon is staring at the television and Ryan can't see his face, just a dark fringe of hair. Things did not end well between them, and they haven't ever really gotten better, but time has eroded the sharpest edges.

Ryan takes out his phone. He has no messages. He scrolls through his emails. They're all boring or inconsequential.

"Spencer's upstairs," Brendon says, without looking up.

Ryan knows when he's being given an out. He leaves Brendon to his cartoons.

Spencer's bedroom door is open. Ryan knocks anyway. Spencer is sitting Indian style on the floor surrounded by a massive heap of clothing. He is folding a red tee shirt that Ryan remembers from somewhere. His hair is shorter than it was last time Ryan saw him. Ryan knocks again, and Spencer looks over, quick. The blue of his eyes is opaque.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," says Ryan. He sits on a corner of the bed and crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap. "What's up?"

Spencer shrugs. He picks up another tee shirt and considers it. His blinds are drawn too, but parallelograms of golden light slip through and line up along the floor.

"How was Europe?" Ryan asks.

"It was good," Spencer says. "The schedule wasn't as bad this time, so we actually had some time to see stuff. Brendon insisted that we do this gondola tour of Venice. It was pretty cool."

"Nice," Ryan says. "Remember that time when we snuck out of the hotel in Rome ..."

"Sure I remember," Spencer says. "We're probably still the world record holders for quickest ever visit to the Vatican."

Ryan doesn't know why he asked. Spencer always remembers dumb things like that. He stands suddenly, and Ryan is struck by his height, always struck by the weird reality of Spencer-as-adult in spite of the omnipresent Spencer-as-kid of his memories. He walks to his dresser and takes another stack of shirts out of the top drawer.

"Spring cleaning, huh?" Ryan says. He hates wasting words, but Spencer's not really talking and he bears the burden of the conversation.

Spencer picks up the top shirt. It's pale blue and the neck is stretched out. Ryan remembers buying it, two twenty dollar bills crumpled in his sweaty fist. Sixteen, and he'd snuck into a show at a bar off the Strip, so sure everyone could see right through the eyeliner and tight jeans and the posturing. He never felt younger than when he was trying to act older. Spencer couldn't come. He didn't have a fake ID and he'd been too baby-faced to pass for twenty one. Ryan had gotten him the shirt as a consolation prize. He'd worn it for years, until he had grown and it had gotten too tight through the shoulders.

"I can't believe you kept that shirt," Ryan says.

Spencer frowns. "Why wouldn't I have kept it?" he asks.

Ryan shrugs. "I just figured you would have gotten rid of it by now."

Spencer shuts one of the dresser drawers, hard. He's mad. Ryan can see it in the tense line of his back and the down-turned corners of his mouth. He glances at his phone. It's two thirty.

"So, are you taking this stuff to the thrift store or something?" Ryan asks. Spencer's lost weight, again, and some of these clothes must not fit any longer.

"No," he says. "I have a storage unit. I'm just boxing it all up and taking it there."

"Oh," Ryan says. He checks his phone again, looking for distraction. "Huh. I guess you were always kind of a pack rat."

\---

He means to go back to Brendon and Spencer's place the next day but he goes out that night and drinks too much and he is very, very hung-over. The light is off when he wakes up. The bedroom is dim but his head throbs. Z has left a teacup full of water and a bottle of aspirin on the nightstand. He takes his medicine obediently, but he can't get back to sleep. He wraps himself up in the duvet and sits on the couch and watches a couple episodes of the View that have mysteriously ended up on the TiVo. He's starving, but it seems likely that if he eats anything he will throw up. There's something gratifying about being left alone with his mistery.

After he's exhausted the company of Whoopie and friends, he puts on MTV. He doesn't know two-thirds of the bands whose videos they play these days. He doesn't rely on music to make meaning of things as desperately as he once did. He met his heroes, and the veil of fascination lifted. Z sends him zipped files of MP3s and Alex gives him cassette tapes and between the two he stays abreast of the latest trends, but he doesn't read the magazines or the blogs, not since the way they all trashed Take a Vacation. Derivative, they said, and simplistic, and he hates the way these fucking anonymous little people passed judgment on him. He's still proud of the album, but he thinks maybe it was a mistake -- written and released too soon, perhaps, when the wounds were fresh and still stung. He no longer feels confident in the ability of his music to wrest the demons from his mind and lay them out for the world to see. It may be that is not what he needs, any more.

When the music videos end and some awful dating show starts, he puts on the Discovery channel and watches something about invasive zebra mussels until he's overwhelmed by boredom and he closes his eyes. He's drowsing when Z gets home. She is wearing a trench coat and her hair is pulled back into a bun. Innumerable fine strands of golden hair have come uncoiffed; standing in the doorway with the light streaming in, she is haloed.

"Good afternoon," she says, formal. "Did you sleep?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Thanks for the aspirin."

"Sure," she says. She takes off her coat and hangs it in the closet and sits down beside him. "I was going to wake you up but you looked so pathetic."

"Thanks," he says, wry.

She has had her toenails painted. They are orange and vivid against the horrible avocado shag carpeting he means to have replaced. He is filthy and stale. He should have showered. He should have gotten up.

"I'm going out with Tennessee tonight," she says. Her voice does not imply an invitation for him to join them.

"Cool," he says. He draws his feet up under the covers. It's not cold out, but he's cold.

He stares at the television. They have moved from mussels to kudzu in their discussion of alien species. The purple vine is beautiful, at least. Z is watching him. She is wearing thick grey eyeliner and mauve eyeshadow; it makes her look disinterested and cool. Ryan has the sudden compulsion to slide his hand around the back of her neck and pull her towards him and kiss her as he undoes her blouse. He doesn't, though. He's not sure what she would do if he tried.

Ryan falls asleep again. When he wakes up, Z is gone. He fell asleep sitting up and now his neck is sore. She should have woken him and sent him to bed. His stomach has settled and he's starving. When he gets to his feet he's lightheaded for a second. The kitchen is dirty. Dishes are soaking in filthy water and crumbs litter on the counter. He takes a carton of leftover Chinese food from the fridge. It's a couple of days old; the chicken is tough and the sauce has congealed. He eats it anyway.

When he gets back to the living room, his phone beeps. He has a text message from Spencer. 'thanks for the pears,' it says.

\---

Ryan drives over to Brendon and Spencer's place early one morning. There are three cars in the driveway and two pulled up to the curb. The front door is open, and he can hear the dogs barking from the street. He parks his car on the next block and sits for a minute in silence before taking a pair of Z's huge obnoxious sunglasses out of the glove box. They make him look like a tool, which is fine. The warm Malibu morning is full of dog walkers and joggers and mothers with strollers. Ryan feels like something the cat dragged in. He wants to start keeping earlier hours, but nothing really happens before ten.

He stands on the stoop and peers into the living room. There's nobody inside but the open door seems to be an invitation. A pile of shoes is heaped by the door, and Ryan considers taking his off before deciding against it. He wanders through the living room and into the kitchen. Windows open onto the back yard, and he can see them all out there: Shane and Zack and Brendon and Spencer and a couple of guys he doesn't recognize. Shane's got a camera in hand. The thought of them making their little films with people he doesn't know turns his stomach, although he recognizes that his jealously is patently unfair. Still.

He noses around in their fridge, which is full of a lot of beer and also unexpectedly wholesome things like lettuce and chicken breast. Ryan isn't sure who is going to cook any of it, because Brendon and Spencer never exactly demonstrated any culinary expertise. On tour, they used to live on microwave grilled cheeses and fast food. Maybe it's that girlfriend of Brendon's, if she's still around. Ryan doesn't know, because Brendon has gotten a lot more discrete about that kind of thing over the years, and he doesn't feel like he can just ask.

He opens the door to the back porch and lingers just on the threshold. Nobody pays him any attention. Brendon is wearing a costume that makes him look like a cross between a member of a mariachi band and Zorro. His fake mustache doesn't seem to be stuck on properly; it's sliding down a little on the right side and it makes him look sinister and strange. Spencer's not in costume. Ryan wonders if this is something for the band or if they're just messing around. Even after everything, he has always been grateful that Brendon treats Spencer like an equal. Theirs is a true collaboration, as unlikely as it seems. It's good though. Ryan recognizes that Spencer deserves that much.

He should say something. Lurking in the background unannounced is creepy. Ryan does creepy better than he once did -- people used to find him pathetic and adorable instead, but he outgrew that. He wants to drink one of the beers that are floating in a pool of half-melted ice in the cooler. There are ten or twelve bottles and one would not be missed. He is wearing a blazer and it's too warm. His sense of style is not compatible with the climate of southern California. Everyone else is in short sleeves. Brendon creeps across the yard. Shane yells cut. Everyone cheers.

Ryan goes back through the kitchen and back through the living room to the street and he walks the two blocks to his car. He unlocks the door and gets into the driver's seat. The air is stifling and warm. He takes off his sunglasses and puts them on the dashboard. The vinyl is burning hot. He gets out his phone. No messages. Sometimes he starves for inane and friendly human contact. He taps out a quick message to Spencer: 'Pears are the state fruit of Oregon. Buzz me when you're free and we'll hang.' Please, he thinks.

He hits send and starts the car.

\---

"Sophia invited us to the afterparty tonight," Alex drawls. "I told her that we were already guest-listed."

"Oh god," Ryan says. "Another Phoenix afterparty?"

Alex grins, sharp. "But we'd be the guests of honor. Sophia invited us, after all."

"Well, if Sophia invited us, I don't know how we could refuse."

Alex rolls his eyes. He grew up with this bullshit and he loves it. He met Sophia through Jason years ago; they are close friends. Ryan admires his ability to ignore that friendship.

"Perhaps we could go in costume," Alex says. He recently bought a tri-corner hat and seems to think it's very sharp. He's been looking for excuses to wear it out. Ryan hasn't yet told him he looks like a Revolutionary war reenactor when he wears it.

"As wizards," Ryan says, after a moment. "Order of the Phoenix afterparty."

Alex gets out his phone. "Dibs," he says. "I'm tweeting that."

\---

Spencer texts Ryan back. 'free today come over whenevr.'

Ryan takes a shower and heads over after lunch. Only Spencer's car is in the driveway; Ryan parks beside it. The gate to the backyard is open. Everything is all dug up; the red soil is turned over. Spencer is standing in a corner of the yard, leaning on a shovel. His hair is messy and his shirt is stuck to his chest with perspiration.

"Just in time to help me out, Ross," he says.

"I'm not dressed for exertion," Ryan says. "What are you doing, anyway?"

Spencer frowns. "We wanted to get rid of the fucking yuccas." He wipes his forehead with his palm and leaves behind a dirty streak. "Apparently they're a scourge."

Ryan isn't sure when Spencer and Brendon started to care about things like landscaping. "You have something ..." He gestures at his own forehead.

Spencer pulls up the hem of his shirt and wipes at his head. He gets most but not all of the dirt. He is wearing gym shorts that are a little too big; the elastic of his underwear shows over the waistband of the shorts. It's hot enough that he could just take off his shirt, but Spencer's always been a little funny about that kind of thing.

"Better?" Spencer asks.

"Yeah," Ryan says.

Spencer takes his shovel and chops at the dirt. He frowns and digs in harder. The muscles and veins in his forearms stand out in high relief. He leverages the shovel with all his weight and after a long moment of stillness, something gives. Clods of dirt fly everywhere, and Spencer pants in satisfaction. "The taproots go down three feet," he says, by way of explanation. His cheeks are red. Ryan doesn't know if it's from effort or sunburn. "But you have to get them all, or they'll grow back next year."

"Ah," Ryan says. He sits gingerly on the top step, wary of splinters. The wood is warped and gray.

"Seriously, you should give me a hand," Spencer says. "I have another shovel, and I could find you something to wear."

Ryan takes off his sunglasses. It's hotter than he expected, and his hair is damp. The longer pieces fall in his face. He's been toying with the idea of growing it out, but he's worried people will think he's stealing Alex's look. Honestly, probably nobody cares.

"I kind of suck at home improvement," he says, honestly. "Remember when my dad paid us to build the stupid retaining wall in the yard?"

Spencer smiles, wide and delightful. "That would have been fine, if you hadn't been a wuss and gotten scared of a dumb bee."

"I'm allergic!" Ryan says, shrill. Spencer looks skeptical. "Okay, god. I could be allergic. I've never been stung, and what if I were and I went into anaphylactic shock and couldn't breath and died? You wouldn't be laughing then."

"You dropped a flagstone on your foot and broke two toes because of a bumblebee," Spencer says. "How is that not funny?"

"Fuck you," Ryan grumbles. "I forgot what a font of sympathy you are."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "I forgot what a tribulation everything is for you." His hands are on his hips and he's squinting into the sun, but he's still smiling.

Ryan stands. "Go find me a fucking pair of shorts and I'll help you dig up your plants, asshole," he says.

Spencer grins, triumphant. Ryan follows him into the kitchen, and waits while he runs upstairs. There are some pictures on the fridge: Brendon, Spencer, and the new guitarist and drummer in front of the Eiffel tower; Brendon, Spencer, Shane and Regan at Disney Land; Spencer and a girl Ryan doesn't know with their arms linked, standing at the edge of a precipice. The sky opens wide and blue behind them, and a dark band of trees runs towards the horizon. Spencer is wearing sunglasses in the picture, and in the sunlight his hair is golden. Ryan wants to know who the girl is, but he won't ask.

Spencer comes down with the shorts and a shirt and tosses them at Ryan.

"The bathroom's down the ..."

"I know where it is," Ryan says. "I stayed here, remember?"

Spencer rolls his eyes.

The bathroom is cool and dark. The house is old and nothing has been updated. The tiles are peach and there are white globe lights over the mirror. It's a dated look. Ryan unbuttons his shirt and folds it neatly. His reflection in the narrow mirror is disorienting. He is too pale and his hipbones are sharp; he got taller but he never filled out like Spencer did. He looks like the seventeen year old kid he was, taking pictures of himself to post on fucking LiveJournal. That is among the stupider things he's ever done, but he'd never dreamed people would save those pictures for posterity. Anonymity was what made that enterprise worthwhile. He'd never really believed his bold predictions of fame, and besides, he still remembers all those flattering words with relish.

He pulls on the tee shirt and the shorts and ties them tight.

Spencer is outside, digging. He stops to get Ryan the other shovel, and show him how the roots grow down deep, how to hack and chop at them to get them out. Ryan rolls his eyes and says he's sure he can figure it out. The shovel feels too heavy and unwieldy in his hands. He doesn't have Spencer's drummer's dexterity. He presses the tip into the soil and it goes down maybe half an inch. Spencer isn't watching. He digs with a regular rhythm. Ryan tries again, this time pressing down on the shovel with his foot. He meets with a little more success. The wooden handle is rough against his palms. He hasn't been playing guitar regularly; the calluses on his fingers are not thick like they once were. The back of his neck burns. The yucca roots are hideously stubborn.

He stops. Spencer has stopped too, and is staring at the hole in the ground at his feet.

"I dream about his house sometimes." Ryan closes his eyes. He feels vertiginous and strange. "I dream about going back and finding him there."

Spencer turns to look at him.

"Do you think that's bad?" Ryan asks.

"It's the house you grew up in," Spencer says. "I don't think it's bad, dude. I think it's normal."

"I didn't used to dream about it," Ryan says. "It's only been lately. I don't know what happened."

Spencer shrugs. He moved a couple of times as a kid, but his parents still live in Vegas. He goes back there for holidays and just to visit.

A car shrieks past, radio blaring. This is a busy street. Ryan wouldn't want to keep a dog on a busy street like this.

"If you want to stick around for another hour we can go get sandwiches," Spencer says. "My treat."

Ryan stares at the hole at his feet. He hasn't gotten very far. Spencer knows his weaknesses; Ryan loves a good sandwich. "Fine," he says. "Deal."

\---

Ryan put his dad's house on the market right away. The real estate agent drove round to hammer the 'For Sale' sign in the ground beside the mailbox the day after the funeral. The asking price was two hundred and ten thousand, which in those boom days was considerably less than he could have gotten, even with the property needing some TLC (as it was described in the listing). It sold quickly. He went in the day before the closing and boxed up what he thought he wanted and moved it over to his condo. Spencer offered to help but Ryan went by himself. He paid for a cleaning company to come in and get rid of the rest.

He often thinks about those strange men in his father's house, how they must have gone through each room and systemically and terribly tore the pictures from the wall and knocked the books off the shelves and busted up all the furniture. The refuse they carted everything outside to a dumpster, where it all got buried, buried, buried. It was all garbage to them: the autographed baseballs his father had collected and the clothes that smelled of cigarette smoke and the cologne he wore. The cleaning company offered a guarantee of customer satisfaction, promising a full refund for any complaints. Ryan thinks of writing them, at night and when he is alone. They were supposed to make it all vanish -- poof! -- without a trace, but it's all still there, inside Ryan's head.

\---

Z is in a dither about the Halloween costume party. It's still months away. "What if we dress up as bromeliads?" she asks, touching the end of a pen to her mouth.

"What?" Ryan asks, distracted. He is reading the classifieds.

"Bromeliads," Z repeats. "You know, those spiky plants."

"I don't know," Ryan says. "That doesn't seem very clever."

She huffs. "Your face is clever, Ryan. You come up with something better."

"I will," he says. "Give me time." Ryan doesn't care about Halloween costumes, but he knows Z is pleased when they are admired.

Z stands. She is wearing a dark gray dress. The shiny fabric waterfalls gracefully down her lean body. Ryan wants, but he refrains.

"I could probably get my dad's army stuff back," he says off-hand. "I gave it to Spencer, and I'm sure he still has it. He never gets rid of anything."

Z considers. "I don't know," she says. "I don't know that that's a very original idea."

Ryan shrugs. Last night he spent much of the night talking to a girl named Olivia who wants to be an actress but for now supports herself by working as a secretary in a law office downtown. The calm, sedate words she used to described her nine-to-five existence were seductive. Now Ryan thinks he too would enjoy being woken by the shrill buzz of his alarm, same time every morning, and showering and dressing in plain clothing and driving to a featureless glass building and sitting in the same dull cubicle. His job would require him to exert only minimal effort. The rest of the time he could write emails or read political blogs or window shop, virtually. The job market is competitive, though, and nearly all the jobs listed specify that previous office experience is a must. Ryan has never had a real job. Being a rock star puts a person at a certain disadvantage.

"You should invite Spencer to the party," Z says, sounding a little bossy. She pours herself another cup of coffee. "You've been hanging out with him lately. It would be rude not to invite him."

Z is throwing a party; she is grudging with invitations, but there always ends up being twice as many people as they expect.

"Maybe," Ryan says. "He's probably busy."

"You should ask him, anyway," she says. "He was your best friend, Ryan."

Her use of the past tense is definitive.

"Yes," Ryan says. "I'll ask."

\---

They go to the beach. Ryan hasn't taken Spencer up on his standing offer of surfing lessons, but he doesn't mind sitting in the sun and reading while Spencer paddles out. Ryan borrows a silly bucket hat from Z, and ignores the look that Spencer gives him when he puts it on. The day is gray and the beach is mostly empty. The waves pound out a steady rhythm as they break. Spencer crouches in the sand and waxes his board. He seems very professional, with all the surfing paraphernalia scattered around. His shoulders are broad and freckled. Ryan spreads his towel.

Spencer looks strange, suited up -- anonymous and masked. He wades into the surf, then deeper, and starts swimming. There are a few other surfers, bobbing far out. Ryan opens his copy of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius to the page he marked. He's told it's a good book, but he's been reading it for months with little progress. Despite the clouds, the sun is hot. Ryan smears sunscreen thick over his chest and arms. He is careful not to get sand on his towel. Spencer rides a wave most of the way in to the shore before tumbling head over heels into the white churn. Ryan's breath freezes in his throat for the long moment Spencer is underwater, and then melts as he surfaces, shaking the water from his hair.

Spencer surfs for a few hours. Then he drags his board up the beach and lays it down next to Ryan's towel. He reaches behind his back and unzips the top of his wet suit. It peels away from his pale skin. His hair is dark and clings to his neck. Water pools at the dip where his collarbones come together. His profile is precise.

"How was the water?" Ryan asks.

"Cold," Spencer says.

"Well, I knew that," Ryan says, peeved.

"I know," Spencer says. He stands. "I'm going to shower."

Spencer rinses off under the outside shower and changes in the bathroom, and they drive to a diner to get lunch. Ryan suggests the restaurant; Alex recommended it to him. It's small and crowded and a little trendy, and Spencer shuffles beside him uneasily as they wait for a table. His hair has dried messily; he's wearing a tee shirt with a frayed collar and flip-flops. The lunch crowd is predictably young and predictably hip. Ryan sees a few people he knows, but he keeps his sunglasses on and doesn't say hello.

Finally, they're seated. The tables are tiny and their knees bump. Spencer is less demonstrative about his personal space than he once was. He's calmer than he used to be; not more steady but more himself, somehow. Ryan thinks that might be Brendon's influence, but he's not willing to give credit if credit's not due. The harried waitress comes and they order. Spencer takes a sip of his glass of water.

"This place is ... interesting," he says.

Ryan frowns. "I've never been here before," he says. "Alex said it was good."

"Hmm," Spencer says. He stares at the table. His eyes are less shadowed than they had been in those awful months before the band had broken up.

"How's Haley?" Ryan asks, tapping a finger on the table.

"Fine," Spencer says. "She's applying to veterinary schools."

"Are you and she ...?" Ryan pours a creamer into his coffee, and stirs.

"No," Spencer says. "Come on, you know that. She's a friend."

"So, are you seeing anyone?" Ryan asks.

Spencer frowns. "No," he says, and just that.

"Sorry," Ryan says. "It's been a long time since you and Haley broke up and I thought ..."

"I know it's been a long time," Spencer snaps. "It's none of your business."

He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair.

"I was just asking," Ryan says. He spreads his hands defensively. Spencer's always been a little touchy about this kind of thing, always a little sensitive about the fact that he's a year younger, a year less mature. He's always been a little awkward around girls.

"And I was just telling you that it's none of your business," Spencer says, calm.

Ryan rolls his eyes and takes out his phone. He has a right to be curious. Once Spencer had confided everything to Ryan: he called right after the first time he ever made out with a girl. It was in ninth grade, seeing The Lord of the Rings at the movie theater by the mall. He'd snuck into the bathroom and texted Ryan before he left the theater. Ryan had mocked him, but only a little bit. He's always found it easier to be glad for Spencer than for most other people.

"Z wants me to invite you to this party we're having," Ryan says, still scanning his messages. "She said it would be rude not to."

Spencer laughs, short and harsh. "I guess it would have been," he says. "I guess it would be rude for me to refuse the invitation."

Ryan looks up. Their eyes meet. "Yeah," he says. "Your mother raised you better than that."

\---

On bad days Z leaves the house early and nobody calls and nobody emails and the news anchors on the television are made of vinyl and orange makeup and all the news they report seems to indicate that the world is being taken over by miserable. On those days Ryan stays in bed and doesn't shower and he tries to distract himself with the internet, with whatever he can find -- xtube or blogs about making go-carts out of wheelchairs or archives of terrible comic strips like Cathy, which he reads despite the fact that it exists entirely outside of his realm of experience. The content doesn't matter. He just needs to keep his mind from running around and around in a circular rut. Usually that's enough and the next day he's better. The next day he'll get up and he'll shower and dress and he'll find some marginally socially acceptable way to pass the hours.

If it's bad, though, one day in bed turns into two turns into three and he presses his face into his pillow to hide the morning light like he used to do when his dad came home late and drunk and flipped the light switch in his bedroom and sat at the end of the bed and stared. He never did anything, just stared. Maybe he'd wanted Ryan to talk to him. Now it is years too late to ask. Ryan wouldn't have known what to say, anyway, so he pulled the covers up and he hid. Now he presses his face into the pillow and curses everyone who has left him. The list grows longer, year by year.


	2. Chapter 2

"Don't you have any Pop-Tarts?" Ryan asks plaintively, peering into the cabinet over the sink. "Brendon lives on those things."

"Maybe when he was fifteen," Spencer says, dismissive.

"Fuck off," Ryan says. "I distinctly remember having to make an emergency Pop-Tart run in Austria because someone couldn't eat any of the indigenous cuisine. It took hours, Spence. Hours!"

Spencer laughs, but his gaze stays fixed on the television. There's a baseball game on; Spencer's always been vaguely into in baseball, even played it when he was a kid, but nothing's ever convinced Ryan it's any more engaging than watching paint dry. He huffs and pushes aside a box of pasta, but his investigation yields no reward. Brendon's Mormon programming must be kicking in because they have an absurd amount of canned food and a few dusty boxes of lime Jello. Way back in one corner, there's a neglected bag of rice cakes. They look a little worse for the wear, but the expiration date hasn't passed and at least they're chocolate chip.

"Your snack food is unsatisfactory," Ryan says as he sits down next to Spencer on the couch.

"Sorry," Spencer says. "I didn't realize I was going to have to babysit today."

Ryan punches Spencer in the shoulder, hard. This instinct towards physical violence has been honed over long years of friendship -- they hid their moments of tenderness with bravado. He tenses, prepared for retaliation, but it does not come.

Instead, Spencer stares at him.

"What?" Ryan shifts further down the couch. "What?"

"Nothing," Spencer says, shaking his head. He presses his lips together into a tiny smile. "That didn't even hurt."

"Asshole," says Ryan. He crosses his arms over his chest.

It's been a long time since they've hung out like this.

In the baseball game, someone in a blue cap hits the ball quite far. It looks like a successful effort to Ryan's inexpert eyes, but the ball gets caught and Spencer curses under his breath. The television is ostentatiously big. Ryan considers commenting on that, but recently he went shopping for a new television set and knows that it's nearly impossible to find one smaller than thirty six inches. Tube televisions have gone extinct.

The baseball game proceeds. Ryan can't tell the teams apart, but when Spencer leans forward on the couch and yells gleefully at the screen, Ryan applauds too. His phone stays in his pocket. He crunches through a few of the rice cakes. They have the consistency of a Styrofoam cup, but the chocolate is sweet. Ryan sweeps the crumbs that gather on his lap to the floor. Bogart is a real dog; it's his duty to Hoover them up.

"What's Brendon up to today?" Ryan asks, brushing a few stray crumbs off his tie.

Spencer shrugs. "Got me. I don't have his scheduled memorized."

"It doesn't seem like he's around very often," Ryan says, after a moment.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow. He spent one summer practicing that move, staring into the mirror over his dresser for hours while Ryan laid on his back on Spencer's bed and had meaningless phone conversations with whatever girl he was hung up on at the time. "You know we're not contractually obliged to spend time together, right?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "But, you've been living with him for three years or something. You're practically married. Remind me to get you two a toaster next time I'm at Sears."

"We're practically roommates," Spencer says.

"And bandmates," Ryan says, not missing a beat.

"I knew you were going to go there," Spencer says, shaking his head.

"I'm just saying," Ryan says. "You have to tour together, record together, do all that fucking promo together. Probably not a very healthy sign that you can't even spend a little down time together."

"We spend plenty of time together," says Spencer. "Maybe he bails every time you come over because he's not convinced you don't have some nefarious ulterior motive."

Ryan feigns indignant. "Fuck him. You were my friend before we ever met Brendon."

"You didn't speak to me for fourteen months," Spencer says. "Radio silence, Ry."

"I figured you were busy." Ryan takes his phone out, fusses with it blindly. Spencer is still staring at him.

"I didn't suddenly declare that Brendon was my eternal soul mate," Spencer says. "I just wanted to make music with him."

"I know," Ryan says. His voice is a little unsteady.

"He's your friend too," Spencer says.

Ryan laughs, but it is a sad noise. "He took you from me."

"I went with him," Spencer corrects. His eyes are dark.

Ryan could press the issue, but it seems pointless. On screen, someone hits a ball out of the park. The announcer exclaims and the crowd cheers. Spencer rests his hands on his knees and stares straight forward. Today the blinds are drawn and the pearly afternoon light makes the living room pleasant, despite the clutter. It is a comfortable house.

"I told Brendon about your party," Spencer says, without looking over. "I told him he should come."

"Oh," Ryan says, and his stomach is tight, tight and twisting.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Spencer asks.

"No," Ryan says. "Like you said, we're all friends."

\---

Alex is staying with another friends, but he comes over to help them decorate on the morning of the party. He brings several strands of Christmas lights and a box of tacky luau decorations. They halfheartedly string the lights in one of the scrubby trees in a corner of the yard. Z stands on the picnic table to hang the tissue paper pineapples and cheerful dancing hula girls. It is still early, and Alex has a cassette of Shut Up, Little Man!. Ryan and Spencer had downloaded it long ago, back in the days of Napster, only to have it confiscated by Spencer's mom, who seemed less concerned with the outrageous profanity than with Ryan's preoccupation with a pair of violent and deranged alcoholics. Z makes them strong drinks with rum and orange juice and adorns the cups with paper umbrellas and neon plastic flamingos.

The warm afternoon passes quickly. The guests are due to arrive at nine, which leaves them plenty of time. After a while they rouse themselves enough to go to the liquor store. They buy a quantity of alcohol that would have seemed fairly obscene to Ryan, once. The middle-aged woman working the register is suspicious; she cards Alex, and then demands to see ID from Ryan and Z as well. The disappointment on her face when she realizes there's no way she can deny that they're of legal age is palpable. Back at the house, they realize they've forgotten ice. Rather than take the car out again, Z and Ryan walk to the store with a dilapidated old wagon in tow. It was in the shed when Ryan bought the house and he never got rid of it; now he's pleased with his foresight.

They fill coolers with bottles of beer and chill a few bottles of white wine in the freezer. At the last minute Z decides the house is shamefully messy. She makes Ryan vacuum and tries to get Alex to dust. With her skirt tucked up around her knees, she mops the kitchen floor. It's all very domestic. The place looks better for their efforts, and Z rewards them by making another round of mixed drinks.

People start to arrive. Z is a good hostess. She takes jackets and purses and shows people where they can find booze. Ryan sits on the arm of a chair in the living room and listens to Alex and Michael complain about a movie they've seen. He didn't see the movie and he doesn't have an opinion. He knows maybe a third of the people who've arrived so far, but he's fine with that. They come, drawn to the alcohol and the promise of a good time. Ryan was like that, once.

Someone starts talking about the lack of good bars and Ryan explains this idea he has for a place called Short and Stout that serves only dark beer at night and does a traditional English tea during the day. That earns a laugh. Alex regrets that the Crocodile Lounge hasn't opened an LA outpost. Someone relates a story of attempted home brewing gone awry: he'd bottled his beer before fermentation had stopped, and the bottles had exploded. It's a pointless, discursive conversation, like that game of telephone, where words get misheard and transmuted but somehow everyone rushes forward confidently.

He is in the kitchen getting another drink when he hears Brendon. Uninvited and out of his element, he's still so fucking loud. Ryan tops off his glass with a little more vodka, considers for a moment, and takes a swig directly from the bottle. One of the lights over the kitchen sink flickers and flickers. Z floats through the crowds, graceful in white. Her arms are full of flowers.

"Look what your friends brought me," she says. She snips the ends of each stem and arranges them neatly in an empty soda bottle. "Go be friendly," she prompts, glancing sidelong before returning back to her flowers.

Spencer and Brendon linger awkwardly in the front hall.

"Are you just going to stand there all night?" Ryan asks, in lieu of a real greeting.

"Hi Ryan," Brendon says, rolling his eyes. "Gee, it's good to see you too."

He's wearing different glasses than the last time Ryan saw him. It's weird, to have them here. They visited a few times, back when he'd first bought the place, back when they'd all halfheartedly hoped everything would work out, but it's been a long time, and it's disorienting.

"Come on," Ryan says. "There's beer in the kitchen."

Z is settling her bouquet. She smiles when she sees them and thanks them again. Spencer gets himself and Brendon beer and opens both bottles. A girl Ryan does not recognize stumbles in. She is bad off, considering the early hour, but she beelines towards a bottle of tequila. She wears torn neon stockings and a sequined dress. She looks like a fool. Brendon and Spencer regard her with amused disdain. She pours her drink with a surprisingly steady hand. Buttressed by an infusion of fresh alcohol, she turns and smiles broadly. There's a spot of magenta lipstick on her front tooth.

"Can I just say?" she slurs. "Can I just say? You guys were my faaaavorite band in high school."

Brendon bursts out laughing. The girl grabs his hand and pulls him into an awkward half-hug. Like a pro, she pulls out her iPhone. Brendon grins giddily as the flash goes off.

"Oh my god," Ryan mumbles. "Tell me that did not just happen." Spencer pats him consolingly on the shoulder.

\---

The night lasts forever, and Ryan must mingle. Besides, there are minor disasters to attend to. Someone tries to makes popcorn and leaves it in the microwave too long; the entire house reeks of acrid smoke and the smoke detector wails for a quarter hour, until Ryan whacks it hard with the handle of a broom to shut it up. A bottle of wine is upset and spills all over the carpet. Ryan gets on his hands and knees to try to sop it up, but they don't have any napkins and all the dish towels are dirty so he uses a sock. Many people are laughing and talking and smoking cigarettes. Ryan thinks he has had too much to drink. These people are supposed to be his friends but he doesn't want to talk to any of them. Alex is standing in a corner with his cell phone to his ear, but he's not speaking. He is tense and focused inwards. Z has vanished into the melee. Ryan considers kicking everyone out, but he would most likely be ignored.

He goes upstairs. A couple is sitting on the bottom step, making out. He steps over their entwined legs. He will have to hire a carpet cleaner, now. The bedroom door is thankfully closed. Someone has opened all the windows, and the cool night air drifts in. One of Z's potted plants has been knocked over. Ryan rights it, but he doesn't clean the spilt dirt. Someone touches his arm and thanks him for a good time. He doesn't feel responsible for the events that have transpired. There are a handful people in the den, sitting on the couches. The lamp in the corner washes everything soft and orange. Ryan breathes, in and out. It takes him too long to realize that one of the people on the striped love seat is Spencer.

He is in conversation with a woman that Ryan knows by sight only. She's someone that's always around, on the periphery of Ryan's group of friends, but she's always seemed a little too expectant and eager. Ryan is cautious of people like that. Spencer is sitting near her but not too near, and he is looking at her but not right at her. Her hair is dark and wild, falling down over her shoulders. She has dark eyes and toffee skin and she smiles at him and leans closer. She says something and Spencer says something back and she laughs and touches his shoulder. It is very obvious what she's up to.

Ryan is annoyed, because Spencer said he wasn't seeing anyone, but this doesn't look like some spontaneous liaison. He ought to go back downstairs. He should go downstairs and get another beer or find his girlfriend or whatever she is and he should have a good time, but he's compelled to keep watching. It's as strange and fascinating as a nature documentary; in all the time he's known Spencer, he's never really seen this. Spencer is not the most famous or the richest or the most anything, but this woman wants him.

Back when they were awash in new fame and girls were throwing themselves at them indiscriminately, Ryan didn't have the energy or the patience to pay attention to anyone else. It had taken enormous effort just to decide what he wanted. Then Spencer met Haley and two months later they were playing the part of an old married couple. Right away, it seemed like they had been together forever. By the time they were breaking up, so much else was going wrong that it seemed a trivial concern. Ryan imagines that Spencer's dated since then, but he doesn't know who or when. It's not unreasonable to assume that women would be attracted to him; he's young and good looking and moderately famous, and he's a great guy. Ryan has just never seen that abstract translated into reality.

So it's weird but it's not weird in the way it should be weird. Ryan doesn't recoil at the thought, like he does if he thinks of his little sister or brother dating. That's something he wants no part of. It's not weird like that, even though he was that close to Spencer once, or closer. It's not the same feeling he gets if he thinks about Alex's heavy-handed courting, which is obnoxious and pointless and gross, except perhaps to the unfortunate lady in question. It's just ... Ryan hasn't ever thought about Spencer in this context. Ryan has never thought of Spencer like this, but now that he has he doesn't want to stop thinking about it. There's some seed of understanding buried in his mind, and if he dwells on it a little longer, it will flourish.

He goes downstairs. He turns the corner into the living room and slams bodily into Brendon. He tumbles and barely catches himself.

"Easy there," Brendon says, wrapping a hand around Ryan's bicep. "Find your feet, Ross."

Ryan breathes. "Fuck, I'm drunk." he mumbles. That explains it. That must explain it.

"You sure are," Brendon says. He is, too. He's standing too close and his breath is warm and beery. Alcohol and exhaustion make it pointless to maintain their animosity. "You've got that blank look in your eyes ..."

"Spencer's upstairs ..." he starts, but even lubricated by booze he hesitats because Brendon's on Spencer's side, now, or the other way around.

"Yup," Brendon said. "I just got us another round." He holds two bottles in his hand.

"There's this girl with him." Ryan's all monotone confusion but Brendon doesn't seem to notice.

"Fuck, he's gonna be so pissed." He's getting excited. "That girl is obsessed with him. I can't believe she's fucking here. You know the weirdest people."

"I don't know her," Ryan says. He doesn't want to, now.

"Well she's at your party, dude," Brendon says. "You totally invited Spencer's stalker to your party. He's going to be so pissed at you."

"I didn't!" Ryan protests. "What's wrong with her anyway? She's pretty cute. She's into him. He should hook up."

Brendon gives him a slow, strange look. "Really, Ryan Ross?"

"What?" Ryan doesn't get what Brendon's not understanding. "I mean, it's been a long time since Haley. He needs to get over her already. It's kind of pathetic."

"He's over her," Brendon says, emphatic. "He's definitely over her. It's the her part that's the problem."

\---

"Your friends were very nice," Z says. She is chipper, considering they're just getting breakfast and it's quarter past two o'clock. She masks the shadows under her eyes with sunglasses and layers of concealer and diffidently sips her coffee. "You should have introduced us sooner."

Ryan shrugs. His coffee sits untouched; his stomach is already in turmoil. A couple sitting a few tables away is arguing loudly. Each time the woman says something his head throbs.

"I thought they were going to be like, assholes or something," she says. "Spencer was really sweet. You should invite him around more often."

Ryan closes his eyes. He's wearing a tee shirt and dirty slacks; it's a warm day, but he feels under-dressed. They're out only because it seemed like it would be gauche to be home when the cleaning service arrived, considering the state of the living room. Their waitress comes and asks if they want anything else. Ryan orders rye toast, only to buy them more time.

"You're upset," Z says.

"I'm not," he says. "I just. I'm not really that close to him anymore."

Z frowns. Her pretty lips are painted violet. He doesn't fucking get girls, sometimes. Her hair is a bird's nest but she found time to do her face. "Maybe you should fix that," she says, gently.

Ryan is saved from having to explain why that cannot happen by the arrival of his toast.

\---

It happened like this:

Ryan is looking to buy a place of his own. He has three houses to see this morning. The realtor is younger than he is, but her crisp blazer and her BlackBerry lend her an aura of authority. Spencer comes along to provide a second opinion, if one is needed. Ryan is glad, because he really needs to get out of the house a little more. Moping does not become him. The roads are not congested and they move easily through the city, from the ocean to the hills. The morning is wide and empty, as if half the population of Los Angeles vanished overnight. They may have, but Ryan doesn't know where they could have gone.

The first house is occupied by a young family, who are unfortunately present for the showing. It's a gorgeous place, but there are stuffed toys and Legos underfoot, and the baby wails without stop. His mother takes him into the nursery while the realtor shows them around, but his shrill cries pierce the thin walls.

"Not very soundproof," Ryan says, frowning as they take in the kitchen. "I don't know how that would work if I wanted to set up a practice space."

The second house is fine, but it's on a main road. The windows into the living room are plate glass and huge; passersby can see right inside. Ryan doesn't like the idea of his life being on display like that.

The third place is further up in the hills, far enough that the city is just a miniature in the distance. It's on a good size piece of land, wooded, and there are rambling overgrown gardens. The realtor's phone rings; she has to take the call, but she says they can look around on their own. It's an old place. It hasn't been kept up, but Ryan kind of likes the idea of living in an anachronism.

He wanders through to the back yard; there's a gorgeous view, and plenty of space to have people over. He could probably put in a pool, even, or a hot tub. They could have a fire pit, and sit outside at night singing and having a good time. They're twenty minutes from the heart of a huge city, but it feels remote.

"This place is pretty cool," Spencer says, coming outside. "Lots of space. What do you think?"

"I think I like it," Ryan says.

Spencer stands so close that their elbows brush. His hands are in his pockets and his unruly hair falls in his face. He needs to cut it. "You sure you want to do this?" he asks.

"Buy a house? Make the move out here? We've talked about this a million times." He's a little peeved that Spencer thinks he doesn't know his own mind.

"You could crash with Brendon a while longer is all I'm saying," says Spencer. "He totally doesn't care."

Ryan crosses his arms. "He wants some space," he says. "He puts up with us but he's into doing his own thing right now. Isn't that why he moved out here in the first place?"

"I think you're reading too much into it," Spencer says lightly.

"Ever the eternal optimist, Spence," Ryan mutters. Spencer tries so hard to play nice, but it's not going to work this time. Ryan knows it. "He wants to leave the band."

Spencer's eyes narrows. "No he doesn't. Are you stupid? He doesn't want to leave the band; he's been writing."

"His own stuff," Ryan says. "He's not into what the band's doing."

"You mean what you're doing," Spencer says, sharp.

"Yeah," Ryan says. "That's exactly what I mean."

Spencer walks back into the house. Ryan follows. It's been unoccupied for a while, and everything is glazed with dust. Upstairs, there's a den, a full bath, and three bedrooms, including the master suite. Ryan is learning the vernacular of the real estate industry. Downstairs, there's the kitchen, a living room, and a large open room in the back that might have been a sun room, when they were en vogue. The wood floors are honey bright and the windows are wide. Ryan stands in the doorway and knows he'll buy the house. Spencer stands a step behind.

"This would be a great practice space," Ryan says. "There's room for your kit."

"What?" Spencer says.

"There's plenty of room for your kit in here," Ryan says. "I mean, you could keep it in your room if you want but it'll be a bitch to bring it up and down the stairs..."

Spencer is laughing. "My room?" There's a wry twist in his voice. "Ryan, I'm not moving here with you."

"What?" Ryan is very still. He doesn't ... he never asked, sure, but he didn't think had to. He took it for granted that Spencer would come with him.

"I'm staying at Brendon's," Spencer says, and although his tone is soft there's no suggestion of uncertainty.

"Oh." Ryan's eyes sting. He ducks his head.

Outside some hollow-voiced bird calls. Motes of dust careen through the afternoon sun. Spencer clears his throat. The realtor is announced by her clipped footfalls.

"Mr. Ross, did you want to see the basement? The door is locked as a precaution but I have the key ..."

"No," Ryan says. "This is enough. Just tell me how I can make an offer."

The cool professionalism of her reply belies her delighted smile.

\---

"So, yeah," Ryan says. "If you still have my dad's Bronze Star, I need it." He is wearing sunglasses but the sun is blinding and he has to squint.

Spencer pushes his hair out of his face with the back of his hand. The yuccas are gone, and they've had stones delivered. Spencer is raking them out.

"Of course I still have it," he says.

"Okay," Ryan says. Spencer is shirtless today and Ryan stares at distant sky over his bare left shoulder. Moisture trails run parallel to the horizon.

"You need it now?" Spencer says.

"Yes, I need it right now." He doesn't know why they've put stones down; they're white and tan and kind of ugly, and the dog is going to dig and get them all dirty. It seems like a pretty dumb plan, but Ryan refrains from sharing his opinion. Spencer probably wouldn't care anyway.

"It's in the storage unit," Spencer says. He's not really breathing heavily, but he sounds a little dazzled. It may be the heat, or maybe dehydration. "Uh, I guess we can go over there."

"Okay," Ryan says. "So let's go."

Spencer's driving a new car these days, a silver Jetta that's just barely on the cool side of practical. There's no clutter on the back seats, and the floors look like they're vacuumed regularly. He has satellite radio; Ryan spends most of the ride flipping through the channels. He got a free subscription to satellite radio when he bought his car, but he never bothered to pay to renew it and soon enough it expired. They haven't spoken since the party. Ryan tries to hate him, but it's difficult to muster the energy. Traffic is bad, and Spencer curses the inept driver ahead of them.

The storage space is an anonymous cubicle in a row of anonymous cubicles. Spencer takes a key from his pocket and undoes the padlock. The metal door rolls up. It's dark until the florescent light flutters on. It's very full. Cardboard boxes are stacked up to the ceiling, labeled in black marker: Old Clothes 2007, Books from Home, Kitchen Stuff (Pots & Pans). The box nearest Ryan is Misc Tour Stuff 09/10. He sits down on it heavily and ignores Spencer's annoyed grimace.

"I can't believe you've got this much crap here," Ryan says, as Spencer starts shifting boxes. "What are you going to do with it all?"

"Save it," Spencer says.

An SUV drives past. There's a dog in the back seat, snout sticking out the window. Hobo used to do that. Ryan doesn't know if she does any more. He's been thinking of getting another dog, but he doesn't know who would watch it if he went back out on tour. There's no guarantee Z won't be busy. There's not really anyone else he could ask. He coughs. The air is bad. Smog colors the distance gray.

Spencer struggles with a box that's at the top of the stack. It's not that big, but he grunts as he sets it down on the asphalt. It's labeled just Ryan. He slices open the packing tape with a key. Ryan struggles not to look away. Inside, there's a jumble of him: tee shirts and books he lent Spencer that were never returned and photographs of his high school graduation and a pennant he'd gotten when they'd driven to LA to see the Dodgers and everything. Everything.

Spencer knees and starts shifting through the stuff. His head is bowed and the back of his neck is bare. There's an empty cigarette carton in the gutter. Ryan hasn't eaten lunch, and he's hungry. He takes out his phone and texts Z, asks if she's busy. Maybe they can go out together, or maybe he can bring something in.

"Here you go," Spencer says. He drops the medal into Ryan's open hand. It's smaller than Ryan remembers, and weighs much less.

"I can't believe you have all of this," Ryan says. "It's kind of creepy."

"You can have it all back," Spencer says, standing.

"No," Ryan says. "I don't want it."

Spencer closes up the box and re-stacks it. The door slides uneasily shut. The five points of the star press into Ryan's palm. Spencer wipes his hands on his jeans. The ride back to the house goes tolerably quickly, considering they don't speak. Brendon's car is in the driveway.

"You can stick around and help me landscape, if you want," Spencer says. His hands rest limp in his lap.

"Haha," Ryan says. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Spencer gets out of the car. "Sure," he says. Everything about him is coalesced and vivid. Ryan wants to know when he stopped being the person Spencer told his secrets to.

"So," Ryan says. "Thanks."

"Sure," Spencer says. He smiles and waves and heads into the back yard.

Ryan stands in the driveway for a few minutes. The sunshine burns. He wants to follow Spencer. He walks slowly back to his car instead.


	3. Chapter 3

Z is not home. Alex doesn't answer his phone. Jon is far away in Chicago. Ryan sits on the couch and considers calling his mother. He considers even calling Keltie, whose number has stayed in his phone all this time, but he is not that desperate yet. He wants to pour himself a drink but drunkenness would only amplify his pathos. Daylight is receding. Sometimes, at night, the house seems too big and too far from the throbbing vitality of the city. The television is a poor companion.

He makes a peanut butter sandwich and cuts off the crust but he can barely eat a quarter. His car is in the driveway but there's nowhere he can think to drive. This kind of desperation is not novel. When he was a kid it was nights like this that drove him to the internet, to the solace of anonymity and blind flattery. He's too old for that now, or too well known. Fame or whatever it is he has is not as comforting as he had counted on it being. It has not been accompanied by any increase in certainty.

So he leaves the television on and lies on his back on the bed that he shares with a woman who does not love him and who he does not love. He stares up at the cobwebs that trail like streamers from the blades of the ceiling fan. His father's bronze star is on the bedside table. Spencer had taken it and kept it safe when Ryan wanted to pretend his father never existed, had never been worthy of any merit, and now Ryan has taken it back. It is nothing to do with his dad, really. He wants to strike Spencer in the softest, most tender spot, to show that he doesn't care and can act just as callously, but he worries that it has been to no avail. He doubts that Spencer is thinking of him. It seems likely that nobody is thinking of him, not one soul in the entire world, or at least nobody who really matters.

The infomercials espouse the benefits of super vitamins to improve health and vitality. A manic-eyed announcer punctuates his sales pitch by thumping the table. Outside, the night is muffled. Ryan can't compel himself to sit up. The pillows smell like Z's shampoo. He toes off his shoes; they drop to the floor, thump-clump. The alarm clock beside the bed counts off the seconds, mechanical. He closes his eyes. He's been misled, somehow; he's worked himself into the smallest possible box and it doesn't feel like he's got any room to maneuver. He wants to call Spencer. He wants to drive back to Spencer's house and bang on the door and demand that he explain himself, because until he knows why Spencer did what he did he can't be sure that it wasn't his fault.

\---

"Man, he's got like, these little tiny hands," Jon says. He's giddy. "I just went to support Cass, you know? I wasn't really expecting it to look like anything, but I could see his little hands and his little tiny fingers!"

"That's awesome, dude," Ryan says. Jon's excitement is infectious, and Ryan would be glad for him anyway. He fully expects to be named godfather, or at least co-godfather, in the event Tom exercises his right as best friend. "Have you thought about names? I've always been partial to Cornelius."

John laughs. "I don't think I can sell Cass on that one. She has a list, but it changes every hour."

"Let me guess. Jonathan is the one constant," Ryan says, smiling.

"Well, yeah." Jon is embarrassed and proud, and Ryan wishes he lived closer, wishes they were as close as they had once been before distance and age intervened. "I don't know how I feel about all of that namesake stuff, though. It's kind of weird."

Ryan snorts. "Remember who you're talking to," he says.

"Dude, oh man, you know what I mean, though," Jon says. His voice rises when he gets excited.

"Yeah, I know," Ryan says. He is perpetually grateful that they decided not to call him George. For a beat they say nothing, then ... "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Jon says.

"Did you know that Spencer is gay?"

Jon waits a little too long to reply. "I knew," he says. "I came back to the room one night when I said I was going to stay out and uh ..."

He trails off, but Ryan makes can connect the dots. His cheeks flame. "Oh. Oh. He never told me."

"He didn't exactly tell me either," Jon says. "But it was kind of obvious, after that. Not that he's like, flaming or anything, but I picked up on it. The whole 'never hitting on girls' thing was kind of a tip-off."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I never saw it. I guess I'm just kind of oblivious, huh?"

"Just a little," Jon says. "We love you, anyway, though." His laugh is strained, and he turns the topic back towards the baby. He's redoing the guest bedroom Ryan stayed in last time he came out, turning it into a nursery. He wants to do a pirate theme, but Cassie thinks that's not appropriate for a baby. Jon wants to paint three-masted ships and waves on the walls; she wants little yellow duckies. Ryan casts a vote for the pirates, but suggests the Antarctic as an alternate theme.

"Everyone loves penguins," he says. "You can't deny it."

"I'm not," Jon says. "I don't know if I can draw penguins, though. Maybe polar bears."

"Polar bears are in the Arctic, Jon," Ryan says, patient.

"I know," he says. "You've told me before." He has every right to be annoyed, but his voice is fond. Ryan doesn't think he deserves Jon, sometimes.

"Yeah," Ryan says.

"Hey, why don't you come out for a little while?" says Jon. "You can be the official nursery design consultant. We can jam. I've been messing around a little bit."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Um. Maybe. I'll have to see what Z's got going on, but yeah, that would be cool."

"Just let me know," Jon says. "You know you're welcome here whenever, man."

"Yeah, I know," Ryan says. "Thanks."

"Of course," Jon says easily, as if such kindness is commonplace.

\---

Z is preparing to go on tour. The dates are announced. Interviews are granted to the appropriate media outlets. She comes home from practice with her girls wide eyed and full of secrets. They make several trips to trendy vintage stores, where Z is attended by vacant-eyed aspirants to her level of social nonchalance. She traipses in and out of dressing rooms in a hideous assortment of musty dresses. Giggling, naked but for lace panties, she beckons for Ryan from behind the closed curtain and asks him to zip her up.

He is occupied by her to-do list, but her attention is wandering. Some nights, she does not come home. He falls to sleep on his side of the bed and wakes on his side of the bed and the other half is vacant. She shows up while he's making breakfast, rumpled and sleepy-eyed. He makes her coffee, and she tells him about the night. It would be more concerning if he cared, but he's happy for her, actually. At least one of them is having a good time.

Alex is twenty five hundred miles away in New York City. Ryan sends him texts and gets no response. His twitter updates are cryptic and infrequent. He sends a card to the house, but there's nothing written inside. Ryan doesn't have the energy to decode his behavior. Most likely it means nothing, anyway. He reads more, to pass time. He gets a library card and visits the library a few times, but their selection is paltry. He takes long walks up the hills. It's alarming how quickly he gets short of breath, at first. He likes walking, but he ends up with horrible blisters on his heels that he has to pop with one of Z's sewing needles, sterilized in flame. He doesn't own a pair of sneakers.

Z tells him he should come along with her for a little while. He knows that if he does he'll just be in the way, but he appreciates her asking. He drives her to the airport the day she leaves, and helps her take her bags into the terminal. She is wearing a belted trench coat and a silk scarf over her hair, like Jackie O. She looks a little ridiculous and very pretty, and she flirts with the young man at the ticket counter. Ryan waits for her to get her boarding pass. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he kisses her on the check. Everything proceeds as it should, but he doesn't really feel much as he watches her disappear into the labyrinth of the security check.

He stops at a store on the way home and buys a sandwich and salt and vinegar chips. There's really nothing he likes better to eat than turkey and cheese with mayo. He sits on the couch and eats his lunch and watches something brainless on the television. He wonders how much television you have to watch before no longer capable of any intelligent thought. It seems like he's nearly reached that threshold. The sky is cloudless and he has money and time but he can't think of anything else to do. He hugs one of the throw pillows to his chest. One inane television program comes to an end, and another begins. It goes on like that for hours, until the monotony becomes too much and he falls asleep in the blue wash of wavering television light.

The next morning he wakes early and full of resolve. He showers and dresses and walks to store. The girl behind the counter smiles prettily as she rings up his paper and his orange juice. He attempts to make an omelet, but it falls apart. It tastes fine, even if it doesn't look nice. A real breakfast and a cup of coffee are a pretty decent substitute for drive and determination. Fortified, he shakes the paper open to the classifieds. He has been thinking lately about enterprise, about all those people he knows who keep themselves busy opening bars and running clothing companies and music labels and hosting radio shows. He'd like something to do, and he's pretty sure he'd be more successful at that sort of thing than Pete Wentz, at least.

None of the advertisements seem to be looking for a future entrepreneur. A number are looking for temporary or part-time clerical employees; Ryan has no applicable experience. If he wants to leverage the experience he does have, he will need to portray it in the most positive light. He looks at dozens of sample resumes. Each site offers very specific advice, much of it contradictory. It doesn't matter; he's never had a real job so he doesn't have any to list. No one is going to hire him, except in some menial and degrading position. His one semester of college had seemed tedious and pointless beyond belief. Now, he looks at the UCLA website and tries to decide if it would be worth his while to take a continuing education course. Introduction to European History isn't going to make him any more attractive to potential employers, but it might be kind of interesting.

Z leaves voice mails that he deletes without listening to. Friends get in touch. Sometimes he grabs a drink with someone, but it all seems a little pointless. He's not depressed like he used to get when he was a kid. Then, it seemed like every door slammed shut and he was trapped in a black cold place and there was nothing that would ever make it better. Now, he compresses all his sadness into a tiny, solid thing and rolls it around in his mind, trying to map the shape and texture. On sunny mornings he sits out on the patio under the purple dome of the jaracanda tree and he feels like if he could just figure out what he wants, he could distill it into some perfect golden syrup that would dissolve all this sadness on contact.

It's hard for him to know his own desires. He's got so much now that he once yearned for, but he's not sure what's supposed to come next. He thinks about Keltie, more often than he has in a long time. He was with her for two years, and it was so good at times. He misses her, still. He imagines what their children would have looked like, if he hadn't fucked things up: honey-haired little girls with big eyes and mop-headed boys with scabbed knees. He's still terrified of that future, but the fear is tinged with fascination. It's hard to know if that's the best path. He wants someone to tell him but he doesn't know who to ask, so he muddles on and looks for signs.

\---

Spencer calls three times, and then he stops calling. Ryan thinks that's fair. He'd severed the lines of communication last time; it's not unreasonable for Spencer to assume he might do so again. Spencer calls, but he doesn't leave any messages. Ryan develops elaborate fantasies about what Spencer might want to say: abashed, he is calling to offer his apologies. Ryan has been a good friend, the best friend, and Spencer owes him so much. Spencer made the wrong choice when he decided not to stay with Ryan at that critical moment. Spencer was wrong to keep such a monumental secret. He is sorry and he is ashamed and if Ryan is willing, everything can go back to the way it was before. Ryan doesn't even know if he wants that, any more.

It's nice to think about, but Ryan's not stupid. Whatever Spencer wants to say, it's definitely not that. Still, Spencer has to appreciate that Ryan was the one who reached out, after those long months of silence. Their friendship is circumstantial: Ryan's dad knew Spencer's grandpa, and they lived down the street. It made perfect sense for them to be friends. Later, it was more force of habit than anything else that made Ryan call Spencer first when he was bored after school. Making new friends was hard, and Ryan was suspicious of anything unknown. Spencer was easy to get along with and he was always there. But for the band, they would have grown apart when Ryan went to college, or maybe before. That's normal; best friends work in playgrounds and lunch rooms, at high school parties, but they don't work so well in real life.

But he misses Spencer. That's the problem. He misses Spencer not only because Spencer has been reliable and there for so many years, but also because he's Spencer: alternatively kind and grumpy, silly and overly serious, tentative about so many things but yet so certain when it comes to believing in Ryan and in Ryan's dream. After all, Spencer has transformed that belief into enduring reality; so many years on, he and Brendon are still writing music, still putting out albums, still touring and having fun doing it. Ryan thought that was what he wanted, but it seems it was not.

Ryan doesn't know when it stopped being fun for him. He doesn't really remember if it ever was fun, or if he was just so desperate for some kind of agency he pursued fame as tenaciously as he could, using any tools at his disposal. It's not the shrieking seas of fans that he remembers, and it's not even the songs, those sharp twisted lyrics he wrung from himself with so much effort but now seem only awkward and strange, like a stranger wrote them. He remembers the good times, when it was the four of them together backstage, laughing and glad not because of who they were and the fantastic things that had happened but mostly because they were there together. Those are the moments that he misses; those are the memories he keeps in the deep places of his heart.

\---

Z calls, but it's hard to understand her because someone is laughing hysterically in the background. "Oh my god," she says. "It was the most fun I've had, ever." They were invited to play the opening of a club in Miami. The stage floated in the middle of a pool of water, and geysers lit by green and blue lights spat mist into the night air. Ryan saw the pictures; Z looked good, playing in her white bikini.

"It sounds fun," he says. "It sounds like you guys are having a good time."

"The best time," Z says, laughing like he's made a fabulous joke. She launches into a story about their trip to Wal-Mart to get Tennessee a new blow dryer. Z is fascinated and amazed by the mundane horror of middle America; it's new and exotic to her. Ryan wishes he could say something about how exciting it used to be when his dad took him to Wal-Mart and let him pick out a puzzle or coloring book or dumb toy car, but she wouldn't understand and that feeling is remote anyway, archived deep beneath the intervening years.

"Then the woman asked to see her ID, like she was some kind of criminal!" Z says, continuing her story. "She didn't have her wallet, but luckily Daniel had cash on him. You'd really like Daniel. He's very proper. If you came out for a few days you could meet him."

"Maybe," Ryan says, cautiously. "I'll have to see what I've got going on."

"Ryan," Z says without hesitation. "You don't have anything going on."

"That's what you think," he says, lying.

She laughs again, lightly, and goosebumps prickle his arms. He doesn't miss her. He doesn't want to see her, but he might go visit anyway, because more and more often she mentions Daniel, the lead singer of the opening band. She posts a picture on her twitter of the two of them squeezed into a booth at a diner, her body turned towards his, and her eyes wide with mock horror. He holds a spoon in one hand, and a glob of whipped cream floats between them, frozen in its trajectory. Something solidifies in Ryan's gut, cold and hard. He leaves the picture open in a browser window for several days, but he doesn't look at it again.

\---

Ryan finds a link on a blog to an organization that is looking for people to walk shelter dogs. It's not a huge commitment, just a few mornings a week. He fills out an application and expects not to hear back, but he does promptly, the next day. The woman on the phone has an accent he has a hard time understanding, but she's pleasant and answers his questions patiently. He's always liked animals, always been pleased with their uncritical excitement and blind gratitude.

He drives fifteen minutes to the shelter the next morning. In plain jeans and a black tee shirt, he feels like he's disguised. Dayle, the woman he spoke to on the phone, greets him when he comes in. She is short and chubby, and her dark hair is laced with gray. It's clear she has no idea who he is. He has to fill out some forms (he hesitates for a long time before putting 'musician' under occupation) and then she shows him into the kennels. The ammonia reek makes him gag, but the dogs yip and howl, glad for no reason at all.

That first day she gives him Garnet, a beautiful, rust-colored Golden Retriever with a white muzzle. Garnet's tail thumps vigorously against Ryan's thigh, and her nose is wet. They walk for a half an hour through unfamiliar streets. Dayle offers to give Ryan a map, but he has a good sense of direction. He'd rather wander than follow some proscribed path. Garnet's knees are bad, and they walk slowly. Ryan can't understand who would give an beautiful old dog like her up for adoption. He imagines she was the companion of an eccentric recluse, maybe a lost heroine of the golden age of film. Garnet sat at her mistress's feet and fetched her slippers, and when the mistress died some uncaring son or daughter took Garnet to the shelter, to live in a wire cage with the other rejects.

His eyes sting like he might cry, so he puts his sunglasses on. While they're waiting to cross a street, a woman who must be about Ryan's age leans down and scratches Garnet behind the ear, coos softly in a baby voice.

"What a sweet dog," the woman says. Hair as thin and translucent as fishing line falls to the middle of her back. "How old is she?"

"I'm not sure," Ryan says. "I volunteer with the Bill Foundation, so I'm just taking her out this afternoon ..."

"That's awesome." The woman smiles. Her teeth are rather yellow. "That's a really great thing."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I mean, it's not much, but it's good."

The light changes then and the woman smiles again before crossing. Garnet decides to investigate a clump of stringy weeds growing up at the foot of the stop sign. Ryan could have asked for the woman's phone number, but he didn't want to. He didn't do this to meet people or make friends. He's got enough of those, if he wants them. He just wanted an excuse to go walking and be around the dogs. It is good, though, like she said. His motives might not have been the most high-minded but he doesn't feel anything but glad, standing on the side of the road breathing in exhaust fumes and watching Garnet nose around in the dirt. It's something he could keep doing, he thinks.

\---

Brendon's car is parked at the foot of Ryan's driveway. Brendon is sitting in the front seat, head bopping in time to unheard music. Ryan pulls up parallel and honks. Brendon startles, and rolls down his window.

"Shit," he says. "You scared the hell out of me."

"What are you doing here?" Ryan asks.

"You're the only one who can pay visits now?" Brendon is all wide-eyed and guileless.

Ryan sighs. "Fine," he says. "I'll make coffee."

He pulls his car up to the house. Brendon parks behind him. He is wearing purple high tops and a hoodie. His insistence on dressing like he's sixteen is bewildering but reassuring. He balances on the railroad ties that line the driveway, arms spread, teetering perilously. His hair is unruly, and his glasses are too big for his face.

In the kitchen, Ryan busies himself with the coffee. He measures the beans and grinds them. Brendon nosily examines the framed pictures on the wall over the table. They're black and white cityscapes, sharp and harsh; Z bought them from some photographer friends of hers. Ryan doesn't really like them very much.

"So how have you been?" Brendon asks, eventually. "Were you sick?"

"What? No, I wasn't sick."

"Oh. I was wondering, because you haven't been around lately, and I didn't think you'd be enough of an asshole to blow Spencer off a second time." He's staring at his hands now. Brendon is not a confrontational person by nature, but he learned pretty young to pick his fights and win them. Ryan knows that's not the only reason they weren't able to keep writing together, but he'd like to think it's one of the major ones.

"I'm not blowing him off," he mumbles. "I've been busy." He goes to the fridge to get the milk.

"Doing what?" Brendon asks.

Ryan stares into the nearly empty shelves. There's a sad head of lettuce in the back, wilted and browning, and that's about it. He's not good at cooking for himself. The lettuce isn't holding his attention. "I don't know. Things."

"Give me a break," Brendon says. "Things? You haven't been doing anything, dude."

Ryan wants to protest, wants to tell him about the dogs, about Dayle, about the last book he got from the library, but Brendon is not a magnanimous person and Ryan won't give him that kind of ammunition. He shuts the door harder than he should and pours their coffee. Brendon takes his so light and sweet that it's basically just milk and sugar; Ryan doesn't have any reason to remember that, but he does.

"Is this about what I told you at the party?" Brendon is now staring intently into the tiny vortex he is making by stirring his coffee.

"No. Maybe. I don't know," Ryan says. He's talking too quickly, right now. "Why did you tell me? You shouldn't have told me, Brendon. You shouldn't have said anything."

"I was drunk," says Brendon. "And I thought you knew. How did you not know?"

Ryan's cheeks go warm. "He dated Haley. He dated other women," he says.

"And no gay dude has ever been confused about what he wants before?" He sips his coffee. "Either way, you're a fucking bastard for ignoring him."

Ryan is glad to have the warm cup to hold, although his hands are shaking from the caffeine. "Did he tell you?"

Brendon is quite for a moment. "I don't really think that's any of your business."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Not anymore." He pushes back from the table; the chair squeals against the linoleum. The air is thickening. They've never had this conversation, and he doesn't want to have it now. "He picked you."

"Oh, god," Brendon says, huffing with exasperation through his nose. "Is that still what you're upset about? You do realize that not every decision he makes is based on whether or not it's going to hurt your precious feelings, right?"

Ryan dumps his coffee in the sink. A little splatters onto the counter. "Of course I know that," he says. "That's not my point."

"Then what is?" Brendon's voice is louder, and there are spots of red on the heights of his cheekbones. "He wanted to make music with me. It had nothing to do with his friendship with you. He wasn't trying to replace you or get rid of you." He spreads his hands flat on the table. "Fuck. He was so messed up the last time you did this. You can't do it again. It's not fair."

Ryan busies himself wiping up the spilled coffee. He can't look at Brendon. Brendon shouldn't even have come. "What he did wasn't fair." Ryan's voice is choked and small. He doesn't cry often, but it feels like he might now. "I counted on him. I needed him, and he left me." He stares into the sink. It's dirty, filmed over with oily soap residue. The house is filthy. He tries so hard to keep everything going but sometimes it feels like he's a catalyst for disaster.

Brendon makes a frustrated noise. "That's so unfair," he says. "He's not under any obligation to you. You weren't fucking married. To be honest, I don't know how he lasted as long as he did, putting up with your needy, selfish bullshit. You were supposed to be his best friend and you never even fucking noticed that he was fucking having an identity crisis, or whatever."

Ryan swallows, but there's a lump the size of an egg in his throat. The edge of the counter is digging hard into the palms of his hands. Outside, the veil of evening has fallen. The distant city lights glimmer through his tears.

"Hey," Brendon says, soft. He puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder. It's been a long time since things were good between them, but Ryan even misses Brendon too, sometimes. "Listen, you should just call him. He misses you, and there's no reason for you to beat yourself up over what's already done and gone."

Ryan laughs wetly, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "What is the world coming to when Brendon Urie is dispensing advice?"

Brendon grins. His teeth are white and a little uneven. "Hey, I have hidden depths, man. I am full of secret wisdom."

"Yeah, sure," Ryan says, but he's smiling.

"It's true," Brendon says. "Speaking as the sage I am, I really think you should call him. He misses you, Ryan."

Ryan nods because he doesn't trust himself to speak. He misses Spencer too.

\---

Ryan goes to a concert, by himself. He buys a ticket on TicketMaster, is apalled at the absurd service charge, and pays ten cents to print it at the library. He drives into the city and eats dinner by himself, and gets to the venue before the opening band is even on stage. He messes around on his phone and covertly stares at the other members of the audience as they filter in. This isn't a trendy band, just a singer-songwriter whose CD someone passed him somewhere along the line. The club is cozy, the kind of place they never got the chance to play. A lot of the people hanging around the bar look old enough to be his parents. Nobody pays any attention to him.

The opener is a girl with a solemn voice accompanied by a banjo, a voilin, and a cello. They play traditional songs, reworked. It's interesting. It's not the kind of music Ryan has spent much time listening to before. He wishes sometimes that everything had happened a little later, that they'd all had a little more time to discover new things. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so much like a straight jacket, at the end -- the band and the name and the stupid fans that wanted him to be something he just wasn't any more. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so important then to find something new and completely different. He doesn't know. He can't go back, so it's just conjecture.

The main act is charming. He's an older gentleman with a black beret and an English accent. He wrings such music from his guitar that Ryan aches with envy. It's hard for him to imagine playing music for years, to have enough to say that he'll be able to keep writing and performing and keep people interested for decades. He orders a vodka and tonic and tips the waitress too generously. Even she is older than he is. He leave a little before the set is done, but stops and buys another of the man's CDs on the way out. He unwraps it and throws the cellophane in the garbage. He listens all the way home, but that's not long enough. He sits in the car and only goes inside when the album is over.

\---

"Hello?"

His eyes are closed because it's easier to concentrate on the pink rich peachy glow thank to think about what he's doing.

"Hey."

"Ryan?" Spencer's voice brightens. Ryan loosens his death grip on his phone. "What's up, dude?"

"You know, not much. Been keeping busy."

"Nice," Spencer says.

There is a silence gathering. They've spent years bullshitting. All the easy stuff has been said, and all the rest seems to hard to say.

Ryan exhales. "So, I don't know what you're up to, but we should hang out."

"What? Suddenly you need an invitation to come bother me?" Spencer's voice is rough and warm and now that Ryan's listening he can hear the hurt. It's all he can hear.

"I was trying to be polite," Ryan says. "I can revert back to my normal rude self, if you want."

"No, it's nice," Spencer says quietly. "We should hang out soon, though. Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

Ryan exhales. "Um, in the morning I'm volunteering at an animal shelter ... but after that, nothing."

"Really? When did you start doing that?" Spencer sounds a little surprised, but pleased, too.

"Maybe a month," Ryan says, distracted. "It's ... you know. I enjoy it."

"Good," Spencer says, vehement. "I can pick you up when you're done there, if you want."

"Yeah," Ryan says. "That would be good."

\---

Garnet walks with a difficult gait, shifting her hips from side to side. She moves like she's in pain, but Dayle reassures Ryan that's she's in good shape for her age. In dog year's she's an octogenarian. He doesn't take her out every time he goes in to the shelter, but he's always glad when he does. Her shambling pace suits him. Nobody looks at him askance when he's watching the traffic with distant eyes if she's snuffling in the curb. He's glad to let her take her time. He starts bringing treats for her and hiding them in his coat pocket. She catches on and presses her slick black nose against his palm as soon as he walks into the kennel.

He thinks about asking Dayle if he can adopt her. He knows he's a good candidate. He's financially secure, and he doesn't work, so they can spend all day together. She wouldn't be lonely. They could walk to the dog run in the park at the bottom of the hill, and in the mornings she could lay by his feet while he reads the paper. He could bathe her on the patio in the warm weather. He doesn't know what Z would say about a dog. He doesn't know if she's a dog person or a cat person, or if maybe she prefers something a little less cuddly, like a fish. She's on the road still, weaving through the rust belt. She posts pictures on twitter and emails, but they haven't spoken on the phone in a while.

He and Spencer get lunch at a little taco place near the beach. The air is salty and rich, and the plastic chairs are hot from the sun. Their food takes longer to come than it should, and they make small talk. Spencer and Brendon are writing, thinking about a new album sometime soon. Ryan talks about the shelter and Garnet. They drink Coronas with thick wedges of lime. Ryan has a cut on his finger, and the acid burns. Slowly, smoothed by the food and the beer, words come easier. Spencer's smile is a slice of brightness. The weather is a balm. Ryan closes his eyes and listens to Spencer laugh and feels some secret worry evaporate.

\---

A cab deposits Alex on Ryan's doorstep one morning, unshaven and groggy.

"I took a red eye from Miami," he says. He grabs a thick clump of hair in each hand and pulls. "What the fuck are you doing up so early, anyway?"

Ryan shrugs. Without any compelling reason to stay up, he's been getting to bed earlier. His biological clock is adjusting. He doesn't mind; there's something he likes about the still blue light of predawn.

Alex dumps his bag in the living room and leaves his shoes in the hall. He makes himself a bowl of oatmeal, and forgets to turn the burner off. The bits of oatmeal left in the bottom of the pot harden into gray nubs of unimaginable hardness. Ryan tries to scrape them off with a knife while Alex showers, but the knife flexes ominously and the baked-on oatmeal doesn't budge.

They spend the day in the yard, smoking up and playing mid-career Kinks records on Ryan's cumbersome turntable. The heat creeps up through the ground, rooting them in place. Alex is terse and unhappy. There's just the barest puff of breeze. The bottle of whiskey on the table between them is uncapped. It attracts several bees, who land on the rim and drink their fill. Drunken, they buzz around sadly, wobbling in uncertain flight.

Alex wants popcorn chicken. They drive for a while, uncertain of their destination, but it's hard to predict what type of restaurant that would serve such a thing. They end up at a Chick-fil-A. Alex reminisces fondly about a promotion the restaurant ran once in which they gave a free sandwich to anyone who showed up at one of their locations dressed as a cow. The food makes Ryan feel a little sick. Alex checks his cell phone no less frequently than every thirty seconds. He wants to go downtown and meet friends at a bar. Ryan is not enamored of that idea.

Alex conveys great superiority, even sitting in that dirty booth at a Chick-fil-A. "Seize the moment or some shit," he says. "Come on."

"Yeah," Ryan says, staring at the greasy wrapper of his chicken sandwich. The oil spots are nearly translucent. "Not tonight. I'll drive you, though."

The city is turned on, florescent and thronging. They drive through narrow tortured streets and Ryan slams on the brakes when a girl stumbles from the sidewalk into the gutter, unable to navigate in her precarious heels. Alex stares at his lap. They pull up outside the club, and he feels the pull, latent. It would be easy and even fun to park and go in and drink and get messy and say stupid things and meet insipid people, and in the morning he would count the night as a good one. It is a routine he knows well, and one he has practiced long. It is not what he wants to do tonight, though.

Alex gets out of the car and salutes before sinking into the moon-bright night. Ryan honks the horn and puts the car into drive. He turns up the radio and rolls down the window. The air rushes in. He's glad to be alone, on increasingly lonely roads, headed home.

\---

They are at a park. It is not yet eleven in the morning and there are children in dainty expensive clothing and parents on the sidelines, making conversation but also watching with tense alert eyes. They sit on a bench in sight of the day-glo slides and jungle-gyms. They got egg and cheese sandwiches at a deli. The neon cheese sticks to the foil and grease oozes, but they are very good. They don't talk much as they eat. Ryan asks for a napkin and Spencer passes it to him. Their hands brush. Ryan glances over at Spencer, but his attention is elsewhere. He's always been fastidious, and he's trying to avoid mess, but the egg-and-cheese on a bagel is thwarting him. His brows are knit in concentration.

Ryan smiles to himself.

When they are done eating they attempt to throw their balled garbage in the trash barrel. Ryan makes his shot, but Spencer misses. He laughs as he gets up to retrieve his trash, claiming the wind blew at just the right time to knock his shot off course, and beside, Ryan was sitting closer. Neither of them have ever been any good at basketball. There was a hoop at the end of Spencer's driveway, and they stood in the streets taking turns shooting, but the ball was heavy and unpredictable and it careened wildly off the backboard, once colliding with the windshield of a parked car with such force that it cracked. Spencer's mom had paid for the repair, but they'd been forced to do chores for her for months, stupid things like cleaning out the attic and repainting the laundry room. It had been tedious work, but it hadn't seemed too much like a punishment, since they were together.

They are slayed by the heavy food. Spencer sprawls on his side of the bench, head lolling and eyes closed. There are freckles on his nose. Ryan doesn't remember him having freckles but they're not something that just appears one day. He doesn't know how he could have missed them, especially four dark freckles that rest low on his throat, like a necklace. If he drew a line connecting them, that's what it would look like. Spencer's skin is thin and delicate there; it would probably tickle, especially if Ryan's touch was gentle and he went slowly ...

"Guess who my mom saw," Spencer says.

Ryan interweaves the fingers of his two hands and frowns. "Who?"

"Brent."

Ryan laughs. "What? No she didn't. Where?"

"At the grocery store," Spencer says. His eyes are still closed, but he's smiling. "He recognized her and went right up to her. She said he was very polite."

"I wonder when he learned that trick," Ryan says, sarcastic.

Spencer shakes his head. "He's getting married," he says. "You remember. Jennifer uhhh ... I forget. That girl he dated in high school."

"Who would have thought he'd be the first to get hitched?" Ryan always suspected he would marry young, rushing to tie down the first likely candidate, but it hasn't happened yet and now he's not sure if it will. He takes out his sunglasses and puts them on.

Spencer shrugs. "Mom said he seemed happy."

"That's good I guess," Ryan says.

"You're still pissed at him," Spencer says.

"A little." Ryan frowns. Spencer makes a face. "What, I'm not allowed to be mad? He screwed us over."

Spencer shrugs ago. "It was so long ago, dude," he says. "It worked out okay, anyway. We got Jon."

"Yeah," Ryan says, smiling. It's hard to pinpoint when Jon wormed his way so close to the center of Ryan's world, but he's there and it's a relief.

"I talked to him the other day," Spencer says, casual, even though Ryan knows there was a time they didn't talk much either. "I can't believe he's going to be a dad."

"You're telling me," Ryan says. "I can't wait for the kid to grow up, so we can tell him about all of Jon's embarrassing exploits."

Spencer grins. "Oh, totally. I still have pictures on my laptop of that time he fell asleep in a chair at that party and everyone taped balloons to him."

Ryan laughs. That was a long time ago, before the band broke up, but the memory is crisp and precious.

Spencer starts humming something quietly. Maybe it's some melody he and Brendon are assembling; it's not something Ryan recognizes. Two boys are playing catch. The taller of the pair throws and it goes wildly astray. The other kid runs after it. They could be brothers, but they don't look like it. One is fair, and the other darker. Spencer isn't paying attention.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says.

"What?" Spencer opens his eyes a little.

"I'm just sorry," Ryan says. "For being an asshole. For everything, I guess."

"It's okay," Spencer says, a little dreamily. "I already forgave you."

\---

Dayle lets him take Garnet home, one night. She's moving more slowly. Ryan can figure out what that means. She wags her tail but needs help getting into the back seat of the car. It's not cold, but he settles a blanket around her. He drives cautiously, takes turns slowly. He has to lift her out of the backseat, at the house. She sniffs urgently in the flowerbeds by the front door before she will come inside. Ryan sits next to her on the floor, and feeds her a can of wet food as a treat. Her fur is coarse and a little oily.

She follows him through the house as he makes dinner and gets ready for bed. Z hasn't been gone very long, but he's unused to having someone else around. He startles when she bumps heavily into his leg, and reaches down to scratch behind her ears. When the television can provide no further distraction, he lays in bed and reads. He couldn't make it through A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius but he's giving Eggers another chance; he's always liked reading about airports, anyway. Garnet sits at his side, her nose pressed into the covers and her tail sweeping the carpet. Her eyes are dark and wet. Little bits of sticky goo gather at the corners; Ryan gets a tissue and wipes them clean. He lifts her on to the bed and she circles once before settling, a solid, warm lump at his feet. She stays there, all night.

\---

Ryan flies out to Philadelphia. The plane is crowded and they're held on the runway for an hour. The child sitting behind him kicks his seat the entire time. He is meeting Z, to spend a few days together. He doesn't sleep on the flight. Z's not there when he finally straggles out of the baggage claim. She isn't answering her phone. He gets a pack of Skittles from a vending machine and sits against a wall with his bag at his side. A harried mother tries to balance her two small children, their stroller, and an improbable number of bags. Her braided hair is coming undone and the smaller baby is red-faced but silent. Ryan watches her go, but doesn't think that he should have offered to help until she's gone.

Z shows up an hour late, wearing orange stockings and a lambskin coat. Her eye makeup is tremendous; from a distance it looks like she could be wearing a mask. She throws her arms around him. He is enveloped in her enormous coat and her perfume. In the taxi on their way to the hotel, she tells him all about what she's been up: disco bowling and shows that went well and sushi dinners and quaint boutiques. Z is well suited for life on the road; she doesn't need much, and what she does need she can afford to buy. He is evasive when she asks about what he's been doing.

"Just this and that," he says.

"Hmm," she says. "I hope that doesn't mean staying in bed all day and festering."

"No," he says. "Just ... nothing huge, you know?"

At the hotel, it seems that Ryan has his own room. Z hands him the key, a tiny apology written in the unhappy turn of her mouth. "I didn't think you'd mind," she says. "Maybe I should have asked."

"I don't mind," he says, honestly. "It's fine. He seems like a nice guy, from what you said."

Her smile returns. "He is," she enthuses. "I know you'll get along fabulously. Are you hungry? I'll come if you want to get something to eat ..."

"I'll probably get room service," he says.

They say their goodnights. Walking down the hall to the elevator, she is regal and strange. Ryan finds his own room. It's small and sparse but not uncomfortable. He takes off his shoes and sits cross-legged on the bed. He orders a burger and watches Law & Order while he waits for it to arrive. It's not great food, but it's passable. It seems somehow that the trip is over, even though he's just arrived. He puts his tray on the ground outside the door and falls asleep without getting undressed.

In the morning they walk around Center City. In Reading Terminal Market, Z strikes up a conversation with a teen-aged Amish boy about the jam he is selling. As a girl she used to help make jam with the peaches her grandmother grew. She is wearing a flapper dress today. The fringe rustles when she moves. Her eye shadow is tamer, but her lipstick is ruby red. The boy regards her like she's a member of an alien species. Ryan sometimes feels the same way.

They walk for hours. Z buys a purple velvet cloche hat. Ryan carries the box. The day warms up and they are hungry. They eat lunch at a tiny Vietnamese restaurant, steaming bowls of phờ that make Ryan's eyes water. It's not far to the hotel, but Z is exhausted, so they wait on the corner for the summoned taxi to arrive. Then it's a rush to pack and check out and board the bus for the drive up to New York. Ryan sleeps in Z's bunk for most of the trip. When he comes to, they've arrived and everyone is getting ready to go out.

It's a long, thrilling night, but he feels restless. Z and Daniel are adorable, and he seems innocuous. Ryan drinks a little too much, and has a pointless conversation with the bassist for the opening band about legalized gambling. It is near dawn when they get back to the bus. The morning is spent sleeping, and then it's time to go to the venue. They're playing some new place, a small place. It's not a venue Ryan's familiar with, and he spends a little time exploring backstage during sound check. The queue outside is mainly girls that look too young to be going to shows without parental supervision, although Ryan knows that he did much worse at their age.

The show is good. He watches from the balcony, sitting well back from the edge. There's drinks afterward, another good time. He sips his vodka and tonic. In the morning they go for breakfast at a Polish restaurant and eat blinis and potato pancakes. Ryan has to go to the airport then. He volunteers to take the train, but Z insists on calling a car and coming with him. They sit in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

"I'm so happy you came to see me," Z says.

"I'm happy too," Ryan says.

"You know," Z says. "You do seem a little brighter."

"Do I?" Ryan doesn't know what she means. He rubs his finger against the door handle. Someone leans on their horn. "Hey, listen, I think I'm going to sell my house."

Z's eyes are huge and round. "Really?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I mean, I'm pretty sure. I just I want a change, I guess."

"Okay," she says. "That's good."

"Yes," Ryan says. "You know, not right away, but maybe in the fall? I've been thinking about it."

"I'm glad," Z says. "You weren't happy there."

"No," Ryan says. "I never realized it, though. It'll be good to have more options."

It is good.

\---

"Jon," Ryan says, aghast. "You can't name your son Grover. That's horrible."

"It's not!" Jon protests. "He's a Muppet, dude. He's awesome and blue. It's a great name."

"Grover Walker." Ryan tests it out. "Nope. Horrible. Plus there's no way Cassie will let you."

"She's not sold on it yet," Jon says. "But I'm very persuasive."

"Please," Ryan says. "You're totally whipped, man."

"Yeah." Jon's smile is audible. "So, when are you going to come visit? If you don't come soon, babyzilla is gonna get here first, and you'll have to help change diapers."

"Soon," Ryan promises. "I think, uh, maybe Spencer and I will both come out."

"Oh?" Jon asks, tentative.

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I mean, we've been hanging out a lot lately, and I know he misses you."

"I miss him too," Jon says. "It's cool that you guys are friends again."

"I know," Ryan says. "I missed him so much."

"I know, dude. I could totally tell."

"I don't know what I would do if we stopped talking again," Ryan says. There's something welling inside him, and Jon is the only person he can confide in. Jon understands. "I was such an idiot."

"Nah," Jon says, so easily. "It was rough. It was a hard thing to work out, but you guys are better now, right?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I think ..." He breathes. There is silence. "Jon, I think I love him. Like, I'm in love with him."

Jon chuckles a little. "That is not the most surprising thing I've ever heard," he says.

"Really?" Ryan is trembling, tense and giddy from his admission. "I never ... I never even thought. I don't know why, but I didn't realize."

"You've seen Robin Hood. Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Jon says. "Have you talked to him?"

"No," Ryan says. "No. How could I ... What would I say?"

"I think you'd say what you just said," Jon says. "I think you'd say exactly that."

"I can't ... "

"Ryan," Jon says, as stern as he gets. "You should talk to him."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He worries his lip. "Yeah, you're right."

\---

The house is listed, and people come to see it. It's not a great market, and his agent expects it will take at least six months to get an acceptable offer, which is fine. In the interim, Ryan is preparing. He wants to get rid of all the detritus he's collected. Spencer comes over one afternoon, and they sit on the floor in the living room with the pretense of going through the DVDs.

"Why do you have two copies of Ocean's Eleven?" Spencer asks. There's a little gray fuzz of dust in his hair. Ryan wants to reach over and pick it off.

"That movie is a classic," he says. "I lent my first copy out and I had an urge to watch it."

Spencer snorts. "Seriously?" He shakes his head. "I think you can get rid of one of them. It's doubtful it will end up a collector's item."

Ryan snatches the case away. "Says you." He puts it safely in the 'keepers' pile. "It's got Matt Damon, George Clooney, and Brad Pitt. It's a great film."

"I thought you were supposed to be the high-brow one," Spencer says. He closes his eyes. "You don't want to get rid of anything."

"That's not true," Ryan says. "I do, but just ... not things I know I'm going to want."

Spencer shakes his head and lays back flat on the ground, his arms pillowing his head. The sunlight turns his hair red and gold. "You never know what you're going to want." He sounds distant, suddenly.

"I know," Ryan says suddenly. "I do know now."

Spencer frowns. "I didn't mean ..."

"Just listen," Ryan says. "I know I've been a fucking terrible friend to you. You were my known quantity. I needed just one uncomplicated thing. I never meant to ignore you."

"You didn't ..."

"Yes," Ryan says. "I did. All the time, I ignored what you wanted and what you struggled with and I expected you to not to care. It was miserable and selfish." His voice is starting to crack, and he's shaking. He closes his eyes. "And now I'm in love with you, and all I want is for you to love me back. I want that more than anything, and I know that's selfish, and I still don't care."

Spencer's eyes are wide open. "I don't ..." He sits up. "Ryan, what do you mean?"

"I mean I'm in love with you," Ryan says. "I'm fucking stupid about you. I think I always have been, maybe. I'm sorry." He's not crying, but his voice sounds raw.

"You don't have to apologize," Spencer says. He stands and squeeze shut his eyes. "Fuck, Ryan ... Why are you telling me this now?"

"I wanted you to know," Ryan says. "I just wanted you to know."

Spencer takes a quick step, agitated. He knocks into one of the stacks of DVDs; they scatter. He's pale. "I can't ... I don't know what to say."

Ryan swallows a sob. This is what he feared. Now things will never be the same. Now Spencer will never forgive him.

"It's fine," he says. "It's fine. I'm just ..." He gets to his feet and wipes his wet eyes. "I'm gonna go for a drive."

He fumbles for his keys and makes for the door. It's a gorgeous afternoon. He starts his car and pulls out of the driveway. He drives mindlessly, music loud. The road reveals itself gradually. He hopes that Spencer has gone. He hopes that he can go back to an empty house and pack and sell his house very soon. He can leave then to figure out some other life, somewhere far away. His breath still hitches. He's cold in spite of the season.

When he has driven a long way past all the familiar places, he pulls over. He turns the car off. It's not a busy road, and there's not much traffic. He could probably sleep out here, curled up in the front seat. Spencer surely will go home if he waits that long. It's getting on towards evening. He's hungry, but he doesn't know where he could get food around here. He is startled when his phone rings. It's the shelter. Cold spills and spreads in his belly. Hesitant, he answers.

\---

Garnet dies a little after midnight. Ryan is thankful Dayle called when she did, because he got there with a few hours to spare. When he walks into the kennel, Garnet's tail thumps like it always has, but she doesn't get up. He sits beside her in the exam room, petting her, rubbing her ears. Dayle comes in every so often to check on them. The other dogs seem subdued, or maybe that is Ryan's imagination. He still hasn't eaten, but his appetite has gone. Until the very end, she is calm. His hands are pressed tight to her ribs and he feels the hesitant rise and fall. Her tongue lolls. She will not take water. He cries. He can't help but cry. She whimpers, pained, and is quiet, and the rise and fall stills, and then she is gone, in an instant.

Dayle pulls him into a tight hug. "It's always hard, the first time," she says. "But you were a friend, and you cared, and that mattered, Ryan. That mattered a lot."

He offers to stay but there's nothing for him to do, so he gets in his car and he drives home.

The house is empty. The front door is unlocked. He dumps a can of soup in a bowl and heats it in the microwave. It tastes like nothing. The DVDs have been neatened, Spencer's work surely. Ryan smells like Garnet, like the kennel. He takes a shower, running the water very hot. Then he goes in his room and lays down on his bed and sleeps, intermittently.

\---

Ryan doesn't call until he gets to Spencer's house.

"Ryan?" Spencer's voice is sharp. "Fuck, where are you? I tried to call you a million times."

"Hey," Ryan says. "I'm sitting on your stoop."

Spencer chokes out a pained laugh. "It's not a fucking stoop, asshole."

He hangs up. Just a moment later the door opens and Spencer is there.

Ryan closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I wanted to see you. I know you're mad."

"I'm not mad," Spencer says. He sits down, so close they are pressed together. "Ryan, I'm not mad. I just ... It was a shock."

"For me too," Ryan says.

Spencer smiles. "You don't have to be sorry."

"Okay," Ryan says. He swallows. "Garnet died. Um, last night. I was at the shelter. So that's why I didn't answer my phone."

"Oh my god," Spencer says. He wraps his arms around Ryan. "I'm so sorry," he says, and his breath is warm against Ryan's neck.

"It's okay," Ryan mumbles. "She was old, and I was there for her, at least, you know? I was so glad I was there. That's why ... I don't care if you're mad at me, I can't lose you again. I can't not be there for you, Spencer." He can't make sense of what he's saying, but he thinks Spencer might understand.

"Yes," Spencer says. "Ryan, you can be. I want you to be ... Didn't you know? I always loved you, for so, so long."

"Oh," Ryan says. He can't stop himself from trembling. Spencer softly kisses the full part of Ryan's ear.

"C'mon," he says, taking Ryan's hand and pulling him up. They go inside, up to Spencer's room, and they lay on Spencer's unmade bed and watch a movie. Ryan doesn't pay attention. Spencer pulls him close, lets him press his nose into the center Spencer's chest. Spencer's hand moves up and down over the back of his neck, stilling. The windows are open. The air is sweet and mild. It's only mid-afternoon.

The movie ends. Spencer is asleep, his fingers curled over Ryan's shoulder. His lashes lay on his cheeks, and his mouth is open. Ryan squirms closer, tries to get rid of all the empty space between them. The menu of the DVD plays over and over, a distant, irrelevant loop. Ryan dreads sleeping and waking to the inevitable unreality of this moment, but he is spent and sleep comes to spite him.

When he wakes again, Spencer still next to him, watching him with patient eyes. "Good afternoon," he says, and he kisses the corner of Ryan's mouth, just a little off target.

Ryan smiles. The sun has not yet set.


End file.
